


Omnia Mutantur

by Amatoxin



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula - Bram Stoker, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Injury, Bottom Dracula, Emotional Manipulation, Existential Crisis, F/M, M/M, Masochist Dracula, POV First Person, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatoxin/pseuds/Amatoxin
Summary: Frankenstein's ill-fated creature has been rejected by everyone in the world, including his creator, and when someone, a distinguished foreign nobleman, unexpectedly extends a hand to him and offers him hospitality, what possible reason could he have to refuse?
Relationships: Count Dracula/Frankenstein's Creature, Count Dracula/Original characters, Frankenstein's Creature/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 35





	1. 1. First meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-chapter story which I plan on updating once a week. If you liked what you read, I would love to hear from you.

1.

I was on my knees, gathering through the windfall and hoping to find at least one a mature, unspoiled apple amongst the masses. I knew I was taking a risk simply venturing out this close to human habitation, but I was getting desperate for food; nothing had been caught in my traps for the last four days, and moisture had somehow gotten into my improvised pantry and introduced mold to all of my accumulated potatoes and turnips. 

Because of what I was, I could not simply head down to the food market to fulfill my needs, even if I had money. In the past I had made some rather bold - and in my own opinion, successful - attempts at masking my horrendous countenance, but there was nothing I could so about my monstrous stature, and my body and its jagged, bulky movements always gave me away as OTHER. Things always ended the same way no matter what I tried, or where. 

Fear. Violence. Rejection. So I had stopped trying. Showing up at night to dig through garbage remains people had thrown away was the path of least resistance for someone like me, a monster and an abomination, not fit for public view.

I knew he was different from the moment I laid eyes on him. The world of men had treated me with such savage cruelty and boundless contempt that it was only natural that my experiences would prompt me to expect similar if not worse treatment from this man, ergo my first instinct was to run. I possessed both strength and speed far out of bounds for any normal man, and I could not see a horse in my peripheral eyesight, which meant the stranger heading in my direction had indeed walked here. I also glimpsed a walking stick in his right hand and was reminded of the possibility that he might use it to attack me, so I steeled my body for impact, aware that he would be unlikely to inflict any real or lasting damage but wanting to avoid the pain and humiliation of being struck nonetheless. 

I cowered, hoping he, a gentleman, would find a me - a miserable wretch doomed to searching through garbage to fill his aching stomach - an unworthy target and move on, but something about my person seemed to draw him in, and he approached me with light catlike steps, his movements liquid and his footfalls practically silent. Constantly on the lookout for dangers, my defenses went up and I prepared for either an imminent struggle or a hasty escape, and it startled me even further when I suddenly felt the stranger's hand on my shoulder. With my constitution I was able to maintain heat and shield myself from cold with surprising efficiency, and yet the coldness of the fingers against my body felt like ice. 

"Are you finding anything of value, my friend?" the mysterious man asked in perfect French albeit with an intonation that revealed it was not his mother's tongue. My time in Chamonix had taught me to recognize a variety of different French accents, and yet his sounded foreign to my ear. 

"No." I decided to be honest. The use of the word "ami" had suggested that his interest in me was devoid of hostile intent, but I had promised myself never to trust mankind again after all that had been done to me despite my best attempts to give unconditionally. That time was gone, never to return. 

Victor Frankenstein had made sure of that through his rejection of me. Twice. 

"My house is only a few streets away," the stranger said, his voice deep and mellifluous, and the hand he had planted on my shoulder tightened its grip. I recognized a peculiar sort of wiry strength in the man that belied his slender build, but I had no doubt that I could best him if it came to blows. I could best any man.

"Come with me, wretched wanderer, and let me feed and water you."

"I… I have no money," I managed to say, hating how my abnormal voice-box made my voice just as grotesque as the rest of me. 

"That is no matter," the well-dressed stranger said with a wide, toothy smile which made the cold pale moonlight reflect eerily in his teeth. "I will demand no payment from you for this act of kindness." For the first time since he addressed me I turned to look directly at him. It was a risk exposing my face to anyone, that much I knew, but also I felt I could not properly evaluate his offer of food and shelter without evaluating him first with my own two eyes. 

As I'd already seen from a glance, his build was tall and thin and he was dressed entirely in black save for a golden cravat pin decorated with a generously-sized ruby stone. In spite of lacking flamboyance in fabrics or cut, it was obvious that the clothes were meant to be worn by a man from the upper echelons of society. His eyes, deep-set and partially hidden under the brim of his top hat, were a queer mixture of hazel and maroon to the point of eerily appearing like both colors at the same time depending on the angle of the light that hit them. His eyes were unusual for sure, but not so much as his complexion. The stranger had the whitest skin I'd ever seen on anyone, man, woman or child, and this, I knew, was not a trick of the light, as his paleness remained the same even when the moon was temporarily obscured by a thick, dark cloud. Rain clouds. Soon there would be rain, and I would be left without a shelter. 

I continued to study the enigmatic man's features as I contemplated his admittedly very generous proposal. His cheekbones were high and sharp, helping to accentuate the gauntness of his lower face; a feature complimented by and made even more prominent by his proud aquiline nose with its decidedly aristocratic bend. The feature which seemed out of place in his face were his lips, which were full, ruddy and lush, their shade of red so severe and unnatural that they appeared painted like those of a common harlot. I only saw a flash of the man's teeth, but what I did see did not calm my fears or answer any questions. For a moment I could have sworn he had elongated canines that were long and pointy enough to rest against his scarlet bottom lip. 

"You don't trust me," the man correctly assumed, but there were no traces of hurt feelings behind the statement. "And you are wise not to. I can imagine mankind has not always treated you with fairness. But nevertheless I beg you to have faith in me and consider my offer."

I thought it strange at the time that he referred to mankind as an "other" that he himself did not belong with, but my head was already filled with so many strange thoughts that I paid no further heed to this particular detail. 

"Who are you?" I asked instead, eyes seeking his to catch an untruth, if one was delivered. 

Was the man perhaps a syndic, like the father of my loathed creator? A wave of repulsion passed through me at the thought, and it must have shown on my face, because the stranger withdrew his hand and entered a more guarded pose. I was seated on the ground with him crouching beside me, so it was possible that he did not know my full height until I rose onto my knees and he to his feet, bringing us almost to eye-level with one another. 

At this revelation, I glimpsed a small sliver of hesitation if not outright intimidation, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had manifested, and his smile returned, bringing some much-needed warmth to his harsh, almost cruel countenance. I noted that there was no attempt on his part to conceal his teeth, which were indeed long and pointy far beyond the norm in humans. 

He raised an eyebrow curiously, almost playfully, when I stood up to my full height, but there was no fear in his eyes, only amusement and something else that was almost akin to wonder. I had never observed a man have such a reaction to me, and it made me almost giddy with delight. Finally I had encountered someone who did not view me as an abomination to be feared or destroyed; finally someone would be willing to look past my monstrous exterior and engage with the person I was on the inside, beneath this hideous skin outfit. 

"I go by many names," the charismatic stranger said, and it took my dizzy brain a moment to realize he was answering my question from earlier. "But you may call me Count Dracula. Or just Dracula, if that pleases you."

Dracula. Dra-cu-la. I mouthed the three rather uncomplicated syllables to myself a few times to get a taste of the name. In my boundless curiosity, I was tempted to ask him what it meant in his native language, but I feared such a question would be considered too forward in our early stages of acquaintance, and I did not want to offend my newfound friend or annoy him with superfluous questions, so I focused instead on the title he had given me.

Count. A nobleman, then. That much was obvious from the way he spoke and conducted himself, but I couldn't help feeling a nagging suspicion that there was something he had refrained from telling me. My somewhat ungenerous musings were interrupted by a loud and acute rumbling of thunder in the east, and as I had predicted minutes ago, rain soon followed, pelting down on the earth and everything situated upon it with a ferocity only Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom and cruelty was capable of. 

The Count's generous smile remained, but it looked somewhat more strained now, and I realized the time had come to make up my mind about his offer and give a definitive answer. 

"Yes," I said, trying my best despite my clumsy, gargantuan frame to manage a humble bow. "If your offer of hospitality still stands, my lord, I will accept."

"Excellent." There was a flicker of something wicked - I had no other word to describe it - in his eyes, and a small shadow of doubt emerged in my subconsciousness, but I was just as quick to brush it away, chastising myself for having thought it in the first place. Someone had finally extended their hand to me, completely unprompted, and I rewarded their generosity by thinking ill thoughts of them? 

"Come," the man said and began to walk away, obviously counting on me to follow him. "My house is not far."

I wanted to ask if there was a carriage waiting for him somewhere close and if I was expected to ride in it with him; something I naturally dreaded, as horses seemed to have a very strong natural aversion toward me in general and also because my stature virtually made it impossible for me to fit comfortably in any space designed for men. 

As if he'd read my mind, the Count spoke up to reassure me. "No horses," he said simply. "I walked. I enjoy walking. I also enjoy the company of beasts, and horses, whilst beasts themselves, do not always share my tastes."

It was an odd way of wording things, and I felt compelled to ask him to elaborate, but the moment passed quickly and it was too late for me to capitalize on it, so I followed him in silence, obediently trailing behind the Count at a distance of about five feet. We were alone and not watched by anyone save for a few circling magpies - drawn to the garbage left behind by the humans, no doubt, the same as myself - and yet I sensed he would not appreciate me taking any liberties or in any way impose on him. 

Count Dracula. I knew his name now, but it was also the full extent of my knowledge of this man, and as I followed him I had to remind myself several times that he had offered to feed me - once - only, and that might very well be the full extent of his hospitality, but in my pitiful, wretched heart, I couldn't help but harbor wishes for extended companionship; something that had been so cruelly denied to me for reasons outside of my control. My yearning for acceptance was so strong it was practically a self-sustaining force, overtaking and muting other driving forces in my being and replacing them with the one singular wish to be accepted as I am, to have someone - even a single individual of the human race - look at me and see a creature worthy of love and friendship. 

The rain beat down harder with each passing minute, and it did not take long for the wetness to soak through the crudely stitched leather hides that served as my clothing. I was briefly mortified to consider the possibility of bringing all this soaking wetness into my generous benefactor's residence and perhaps even ruin something which he valued dearly; a rug or a piece of furniture. That was my nature and my curse, I supposed, to ruin everything I came into contact with and soil it with my hideous presence.  
Before my bleak thoughts could force me to interrupt our budding association and flee from the Count's presence, another realization struck me: the man had offered his name when prompted, but he had not asked me for mine in return, perhaps because he correctly intuited that I did not have one. 

I couldn't help but feel that I had stumbled onto something profound and ominous, but my belly ached for sustenance nearly as badly as my heart ached for human company, and I was determined not to let my own prejudices squander my chances of having both of these needs met, if only on a short-term basis. So I lumbered after the man, covertly hoping he had not been lying about the close proximity of his house. 

And that was how I met one Vladislas Draculea, the inhuman man who would come to reshape my destiny and complete my transformation into the monster I was fated to become.

To be continued...


	2. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Creature arrives at his new benefactor's home.

2.

If the Count's eccentric behavior until now could have been overlooked or excused for some reason or another, the lack of servants greeting us upon entry ought to have clued me in. I was ignorant of a lot of things, and the customs and traditions of the higher classes were largely a mystery to me, as I had been unable to observe them in person and had therefore gathered my scant knowledge from written texts. But even I knew that a nobleman - an insignificant one nonetheless - customarily kept a hired servant staff around for their practical needs, and yet Dracula seemed to be all alone in this big house, in charge of all these menial offices that would normally be delegated to servants. 

Although his sturdy traveler's cloak had protected his person from the downpour better than my own clothing had protected me, the rain had soaked through his hair and left it plastered around his capacious skull like a dark brown helmet. It was then that I noticed that my host's ears, much like his teeth, were elongated and pointy in a way that was decidedly not the norm in humans, and without his previously airy locks of hair to shield them, they appeared quite prominent. I did not voice my perceptions about his remarked physiognomy, of course, as I knew such would be considered very rude. The storm rumbled on outside, uncaring and unaware of the havoc it wreaked on the earth below. The night of my monstrous birth been a stormy one, and I feared I would never be able to associate the noise of thunderclap with anything other than enormous suffering, physical or spiritual. 

Before pinpricks of doubt could fully puncture my resolve to remain in his house, Dracula ushered me through the sparsely lit entrance hall into what I assumed was the grand dining room, and once inside, my senses were instantly assaulted by a myriad of delightful, lovely impressions, so dizzying and intense I could not process them all at once and had to resort to forming layers in my consciousness. A long table stretched across the expanse of the room, and on it a full-blown feast worthy of a king had been laid out. My exhilaration was quickly replaced by abject terror as I realized this could not possibly be an invitation extended to me alone. By asking me to partake, the Count expected me to consort with people - fellow guests - of all manners whom I did not know and who would very likely, at the sight of one such as I, have nothing but cruelty and ridicule for me. 

Propelled by my newfound fear, I had already mapped out my exit route when the Count stepped forth to halt my progress. I could have sworn I saw a momentary glimpse of sudden fury flash through his eyes, but when I looked a second time, his face expressed nothing but surprised upset. My unexpected desire to leave had clearly caused him great offense, and I wished I'd possessed the verbal faculties to explain my reasoning to him; to assure him that my panic was not the product of ingratitude, but when I tried to speak, no words exited my mouth and my throat felt as though I was choking on plain air. 

"Is something the matter?" he asked a bit too sharply for it to be just a polite inquiry. He clearly had something invested in my presence, as strange as that sounded as we had only just met. "Why are you leaving?"

I tried to speak, and to my relief my vocal cords were once again functional if not to the point of precision that I desired. "I fear my presence might be… unsettling for the other guests," I managed, suddenly hot despite the clammy coldness of wet leather against my skin. 

The Count smiled indulgently and his sunny, warm disposition had returned full force. "Other guests? Why, there are none! You are my only guest tonight." 

He made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the dining table, and I allowed myself to once again sample the wonderful aromas wafting from it. Feeling my hunger more acutely than ever, I realized I would need to apply some serious behavioral restraint if allowed to indulge freely without limit, or my own bowels might protest to the over-exertion and cause an embarrassing accident. Due to the nature of my skin, blushing was a natural human response I was incapable of, but I knew that my face would have flushed bright red right now if it had not been so. 

Count Dracula took full advantage of my hesitation, and grabbing me by the elbow he proceeded to eagerly escort me to the table where he had me sit down at the short end, which I knew was usually the place reserved for the master of the house. The man himself took a seat next to me, to my right, and as if things were not already strange enough, he broke protocol again to pour me a goblet of wine. 

I habitually consumed alcohol whenever I could, because even though it made my stomach eject rancid sprays of vomit, its soothing, sedative qualities lulled my tortured mind into a state that was more tolerable than sobriety, if only on a very short-term basis. I always paid dearly for my thoughtless sprees of over-consumption the following day when the last remnants of inebriation had dissipated but the nausea had not. I always made sure I was guaranteed complete solitude during these reckless drinking sessions, mainly because of fear of an attack, but also because of my own lowered levels of inhibition. If someone found me in a state of drunken fervor and challenged me, I might do something I'd regret once I sobered up. 

I had no desire to show my gracious host this side of myself, which made me consider rejecting the offer of alcohol, even if it was only wine. The fear of appearing rude won over this particular apprehension, however, and I sipped at the red liquid he had poured for me, already longing for the buzz that would follow. Since I had not eaten properly in several days, the food tempted me far more than the drink. No one had taught me proper table manners, and as my only option of acquiring sustenance was to pick things up from the ground for immediate consumption, it had never occurred to me that civilized men did not eat with their hands until I witnessed the procedure myself. My host chuckled at my clumsy, ungainly attempts to slice a piece of the roast with the proferred knife and fork, and I felt both relieved and slightly humiliated when he stood up and offered to do it for me. I surrendered all pretense of acting civilized and brought the meat to my mouth with my hands. It was the best roast I had ever sampled, so juicy and tender, and the moment I swallowed my first mouthful, I reminded myself to ask the Count to give my compliments to the cook. Someone capable of making meat taste this wonderful was good enough to feed the gods!

When my immediate hunger had been stilled, I allowed myself to slow down and properly sample more of the dishes spread out before me, trusting that the Count had been honest about my being his only guest tonight. My creator had made me capable of subsisting on a very coarse diet; I was certainly better equipped than a normal man to make do with a small variety of very basic, bland food sources, such as roots and acorns naturally found in almost any forest, but one of the great downsides of this useful adaptation was the lack of a refined palate. I could sense and differentiate between the extremes of sweet, savory and acidic, but nuances in flavor were mostly lost on me. 

My host was quick to refill my goblet as soon as I had finished the first serving of wine, and as I began to feel the pleasant, tingling haze of intoxication, I wanted to add to it and did not hesitate to indulge, although in retrospect I found I perhaps ought to have been more careful.

With a body that was easily the weight of three small men or two large ones, my appetite was understandably voracious, and never knowing when I found get the chance to eat again, my behavioral controls around food were poor if not completely non-existent. The Count, meanwhile, seemed content to be tending to my needs, neither drinking nor eating anything himself. If he was disgusted by my lack of civilized table manners, he did not show it, although on the few occasions that our eyes met across the table, I could sense that I was under intense scrutiny. 

I demonstrably licked my fingers in a way that I had only observed in very small children and sometimes lunatics; partly because I wanted to savor every drop of the delicious meat juices and let none go to waste, but also to test his reaction to such undignified behavior. My host merely smiled, and my gaze was once again drawn to his peculiar canine teeth. The thunderstorm raged on outside, seeming to have increased in strength and intensity given that I could hear it so clearly through the robust walls of the Count's house. The thought of leaving now to spend the remainder of the night without shelter and exposed to the elements sent a sharp, piercing arrow of angst through my gut, but because I was already intimately familiar with the actions of men who did not want me anywhere near them, I would choose flight and solitude over the hatred and violence my mere presence provoked. 

I had no idea why this strange man had opened up his house to me in the first place when he was clearly not under any pressure to do so, and therefore his next spontaneous utterance stunned me even more than the offer of food. 

"Would you like to remain here for the night?" Dracula asked in a silky voice. The question was posed to me, and his almost theatrically raised eyebrows strongly indicated he wanted me to answer it, but it was also crystal clear that he would not accept anything other than an affirmative. 

"Y-you have been very kind to me, sir, but I do not wish to impose," I stammered, momentarily at a loss for words. Mankind's treatment of me thus far had been abhorrent, but at least it had been consistent and easy to predict after a few fateful encounters. Why this man, who was neither blind nor insane by the looks of it, would show me so much unprompted kindness and hospitality was confusing and not entirely without disturbing elements. I had nothing he could possibly want, and he could find an amenable companion literally anywhere else, so why me?

I thought I saw a frown cross the Count's face for a moment, but he quickly fixed his features into a neutral look of benevolence. "You still do not trust me," he said with a small sigh. "I do not begrudge you your caution, as you no doubt have many reasons to distrust your fellow men and be wary of strangers." 

I did not inform him that all men were strangers to me, including my own creator, who had rejected me on sight for being too hideous. Certain things were too intimate and too painful to voice, let alone share. 

"…and you're wondering why I am not like the others you've met." Dracula leaned against me, and in the flickering orange light from the candelabra his eyes looked redder than ever and there was an odd optical effect in the pupils that mimicked pulsation. "The truth is that I do not care much for the laws of men or the rules of society that govern their actions. They are nothing but sheep led to the slaughter by their selfish rulers. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I would wager a guess that you can relate to this sentiment."

My first impulse was to object; even though I had not experienced kindness personally, I had witnessed it in my cottagers and seen firsthand the love and compassion shared between lovers and father and his children. But for those exchanges to occur, it precluded the existence of an social bond, and someone like myself, because of how I looked, would be forever excluded from communion and close association with sapient creatures. 

Dracula correctly interpreted my failure to present a rebuttal as affirmation, smiling indulgently in a way that was not entirely dissimilar, I assumed, to the way a loving father would smile when his young son or daughter had acquired an important skill like walking and just recently taken their first hobbling steps unsupported. My own father, if he could be called that, had shown me nothing but naked horror and intense revulsion since the beginning of my existence, so the Count's display of fatherly pride spoke to my heart and resonated with one of my deepest desires for acceptance from a parental figure. 

"You are free to leave at any time, as I hope you understand," Dracula said with emphasis on the second part of the phrase. "I am not in the habit of keeping prisoners." Even though the actual words reflected the attitude of a virtuous man with pure and honest intentions, there was something about the delivery that contrasted with the contents, which I could not put my finger on at the time. 

"I fear my continued presence would inconvenience you greatly," I began, but he waved off my protests and stilled my gesticulating hand by placing his own atop my wrist. My hands were huge, coarse and primitive compared to his long, fine and pale ones, my skin crisscrossed by sutures, my poorly mended flesh knotted and dimpled in. And yet this man had reached out to me first, touching me without the intent to cause harm. No other creature had ever tolerated my touch; even mankind's tamed beasts could not stomach the sight or smell of me if I ventured too close.

"Nonsense," the Count said emphatically. "I too suffer the feeling of loneliness too often," he added. "I may bear little outward similarity to you, but on the inside you and I are more similar than you perhaps realize."

It was an odd statement coming from a handsome and blatantly wealthy nobleman who could not possibly want for anything, and I considered interrogating him on the meaning of what he'd said, perhaps to test his truthfulness, but it would have been impolite, given that I was a guest in his house and had already taken advantage of his admittedly generous hospitality. 

"Yes?" the Count inquired, sliding his hand along my wrist almost like a caress. I was taken aback by the boldness and found myself wondering what his intentions truly were. My gut was telling me that there was something amiss about this whole situation, but the overwhelming desire to connect with a fellow human being - to forge a bond that would pierce the thick, dark, suffocating veil of involuntary loneliness that had been imposed upon me without my knowledge or consent - was the stronger of the two drives. I hated my father for endowing me with perceptions and passions while simultaneously giving me a face that would make it impossible for me to pursue any meaningful relationships with other people. If I rejected this man now, another opportunity might never present itself.

"Yes," I said, pulling my twisted excuse for a mouth into the semblance of a smile. I had been told by my creator that any expression of mirth on my face was made even more ghastly by the contrast of black, shriveled lips that I was unable to close completely against two rows of perfect pearly white teeth. Victor Frankenstein, whatever his reasons were, was fond of contrast.

Dracula's eyes gleamed from excitement, and - dare I say - satisfaction. His hand, which was still resting atop my arm, suddenly tightened its grip and for a split second I could feel his fingernails, which were abnormally long and cut to a sharp point, pricking my skin hard enough to sting. 

"Excellent, my friend," the Count said, still grinning widely. He stood up, and I was going to follow his example and pushed my chair out, but he reached towards me and stilled my motions with his hand once more. I noted that despite the ambient warmth of the room, my host's hands were still ice-cold. 

"No, no; do not bother yourself. You are my guest tonight and it is my duty to wait on you," he said, and once again I was struck by the strangeness in being serviced by the master of the house when there were signs of wealth and opulence everywhere around me. 

"If you desire more wine or even something stronger, please, let me know," Dracula continued, and his cold hand traveled along the length of my arm up toward my shoulder. This was no casual touch by any stretch of the definition; it was undoubtedly a caress, and an intimate one at that. I felt a strange but not unpleasant pooling of warmth in my gut, and at the time I attributed it to the alcohol, but later, after I had run the entire sequence of perceptions through a cognitive analysis, I realized this was when I experienced my first stir of desire for the man. The sensation intensified tenfold and radiated into my loins when Dracula spoke again, somehow managing to make his next intimate invite sound like a casual announcement. 

"I will draw you a hot bath."

To be continued...


	3. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being treated to a feast worthy of a king, the Creature receives yet another invitation.

3.

The thought of my host seeing my hideous patchwork skin completely exposed was nothing short of mortifying to me, and for the umpteenth time I wished deeply with all my heart that I could have gone back to being a mindless, soulless beast not burdened with the curse of self-awareness. Granted, the Count had proved that he could tolerate or even look past my hideous visage and monstrous voice, but would he be able to bear the sight of my malformed, ogrish form in all its cursed glory and still keep up the pretense that he was conversing and engaging with a fellow man? 

I was in equal parts loath and ashamed to admit I wanted to have a bath quite badly; I had never had that experience, you see. All my previous attempts at washing my body had been carried out in the cold, coursing waters of a river or stream, at night in the dark, when I was assured no one saw me. Even in complete solitude, I usually covered every inch of myself below the neck, as I could not stand looking at the disfigured and haphazardly assembled parts that made up my skin. I was an abomination; a blot on the face of mankind, and I needn't be reminded of this fact through visuals, as my every waking moment was spent contemplating it anyway. 

I could just leave, I realized. The Count had left the dining room, supposedly to prepare my bath, and if I wanted to, I could exit his house quietly and disappear into the night without exchanging another word with him. Perhaps I could find shelter from the storm in someone's underground storage, and if not, all I had to do was wait for it to pass. It would not be comfortable, but it would save me from the humiliation of revealing my body to the Count. 

It would be rude; this much I knew, and despite my deep resentment for humankind, I had not been able to rid myself fully of the seemingly inherent wish to please them. Had my loathed maker not rejected me, I would have gone to hell and back for him. The Count owed me nothing, and yet he was the first man to show me a modicum of kindness, and here I was, considering slinking away like a rat, ungrateful and unappreciative. 

The idea of attaching those epithets to myself went against my conscience, and that was likely the moment I decided to stay. To fortify my nerves, I poured myself another goblet of wine, recalling that my host had said I was free to help myself if I wished. My thoughts were temporarily interrupted when I suddenly heard a series of clanging noises from what I presumed to be the kitchen. I was starting to come to terms with the realization that my host and I were the only people present in this large house and therefore he would be the one personally tending to all my needs. After some initial hesitation, I found the thought oddly reassuring, as it also meant I would not risk terror and rejection by a servant repulsed by my exterior. 

I was unsure of how much time that had passed when my host reappeared. Aside from preparing my bath, the Count had clearly also found the time to alter his own appearance rather dramatically by changing out of his formal black suit into something markedly casual; his waistcoat and cravat had been shed, and the neckline of his shirt was no longer held in place by a starched collar, parting to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of perfectly smooth ivory skin. Seeing him enter the room like this might have been the moment when I fully recognized and acknowledged the type of desire I felt towards him, and the Count, being a very perceptive man, must have picked up on it. 

He informed me with a perfectly innocent phrasing of words that my bath was ready and then requested that I follow him. I finally stood up, a bit lightheaded from the wine, and instantly knew that the Count had likely noticed this particular detail as well.   
As I trailed behind him and followed him through several doorways, some of which were too low for me to pass through without crouching, I had a strange impulse to memorize my path in case I needed to escape quickly. I did this without any effort on my part; whoever this brain had belonged to before it was placed in my current cranium, his mental faculties had to have been impressive. 

At last we reached a sparsely furnished octagonal room, windowless but lit up by various light sources, including a great hearth in which firewood sparked and crackled invitingly as if to welcome us, and I realized this was to be our final destination. Any lingering doubt in my mind was eradicated by the sight of a grand claw-footed porcelain-coated iron bathtub situated almost perfectly in the middle of the room, the water so hot it steamed the air. 

The Count titled his head and let his gaze wander calculatingly between myself and the bathtub. "Is it large enough to fit you, you might wonder?" he said. "There is only one way to find out, isn't there?" 

He proceeded to roll up his sleeves, eradicating any obscurity regarding who was going to tend to me. Wonderful scents wafted from the steaming water, and I could sense them to an almost overwhelming degree as I drew closer, wondering if they would linger on my skin afterwards.

I would need to disrobe before entering the bath; that much was self-evident, and I'd also have to do it in front of my host. Did I fear he was going to reject me if he saw the full extent of my deformity, even though my appearance had not seemed to bother him thus far? 

"Get in quickly, before it cools," Dracula admonished, but there was no venom in his tone, and I allowed myself to relax just a smidgen. As I may have mentioned, finding garments that fit my over seven foot tall frame was difficult if not entirely impossible, so the only set of clothes I owned were the ones I was currently wearing. They were of my own design, stitched together crudely and with no regard for aesthetics, like my body.

Sensing my reluctance to undress under his watchful gaze, the Count chose a more diplomatic approach and politely turned to face the wall. "Will this help?" he asked in a low, pleasant voice. "I promise I won't look until you are submerged in the water."

Due to the recent violent downpour of rain, my clothes were soaked through and adhered to my skin like sticking plaster. It would have been a lie to claim I was not relieved to be rid of them, and truthfully the idea of putting them back on after my bath was nothing short of distasteful. I realized I would have to, however, because even if the Count was generous enough to lend or even gift me some of his clothing, my size guaranteed that none of it would fit. 

Naked at last, I sampled the water by running my hand through it before lowering myself into it, fully cognizant of the fact that my body was better equipped to withstand excessive cold than heat. Unlike humans, I was unable to sweat and therefore - like a dog - relied on releasing excess heat through the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet. I had overlooked this particular facet of my constitution on several occasions and almost suffered a heatstroke because of my stubbornness and refusal to accept my lived reality. 

With heat lapping at me from every direction, I was so uncomfortable that I considered interrupting the event, consequences be damned. The Count must have deduced something was wrong from my ragged breathing and turned to face me once more. The heat-induced illusion momentarily distorted his narrow, delicate features into something quite grotesque, and again I could have sworn his eyes pulsated. 

"Is there something wrong with the water? Is it too hot, hmm?" 

He glided towards me, and I saw that he had undone a few more buttons on his shirt, leaving even more of his chest exposed. A thin coat of sweat had appeared on his neck, and I had a sudden impulse to bury my tongue in the hollow of his throat and find out if I could taste the salt on his skin. I did not act on these desires or signal them in any way that I was aware of, and yet I could have sworn the Count saw right into my soul with his oddly-colored almond-shaped eyes. I watched his graceful, aristocratic hands lather a washcloth with soap, and although his intentions to personally bathe me ought not have come as a complete surprise, the realization that it was going to happen seemed to jolt me awake. I was not merely going to suffer his gaze, but also his touch.   
However, with regards to my body's reaction to his presence, 'suffer' might not be the right word to use in this instance. The first fine threads of fiery, volcanic lust pierced my gut and nestled in my groin, in turn sparking a physical response I was all too familiar with but had never had the opportunity to explore with another living person. My member, which was fully serviceable but just as ugly as the rest of my body, quickly became tumescent and curved up towards my belly. This part of me was submerged beneath the water's surface, but due to the clear, unsoiled nature of my bath water, the Count would have to have been half-blind not to notice. However, considering the multiple ingrown layers of dust and filth that covered me from head to toe, the water would not stay pristine for very long. 

"I was unsure of what scents you preferred, so I chose lavender," the Count said chattily, sounding like he was talking about simple everyday matters with an equal instead of bathing a disfigured man-made monstrosity in his home. "I have a thing for the feminine fragrances myself, so I hope you don't mind my choice."

"Of course not," I hurried to respond. I was used to being surrounded by the baser smells of human existence; stale piss, rotting cabbages and sour vomit, and therefore any positive fragrance was a welcome interruption. My host merely smiled and wordlessly instructed me to extend the arm closest to him so that he could wash it, and I complied, my arousal stubbornly persisting while his delicate but strong hands massaged my thick, knotted skin and the underlying tissues beneath. 

The white washcloth was quickly soiled by my filth, but my host had brought more and the switch from one to the next was almost unnoticeable. My breath became ragged and unsteady, and for a moment my eyesight swam when the Count's hands dipped beneath the surface of the now rather grimy water and brushed against my erection, either with intent or by accident, although I suspected the former. My own hands were busy gripping the rim of the tub to the point of whitening knuckles, and I momentarily wondered if I possessed the strength to manually shatter the porcelain. 

"Are you still uncomfortably hot?" he asked suddenly. "Would you like me to add some cold water to your bath?"

"That… will not be needed," I managed, although having the Count leave the room so that I could take care of my 'problem' was a tempting offer right then. The water had cooled somewhat since I entered it, but because of my flustered state I barely felt it. 

Dracula moved to stand behind me and began to knead my massive shoulders, seemingly familiar with the basic anatomical structures making up my body, because less than a minute into the massage, much of the tension in my upper half had dissolved and melted away like ice at the arrival of spring. Had I been a more superstitious type, I might have felt compelled to believe he'd worked his magic on me. 

"You don't relax often, do you?" he purred in my ear, hands snaking their way around my ribcage to knead my pectoral muscles, making me realize that my nipples were erect as well despite the heat from the water. 

"It is hard to relax when all of humanity seeks to destroy you on sight," I answered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

"Do you believe I seek to destroy you as well?" Dracula asked, and I tried to deduce whether or not it was a trick question. 

Treating the question candidly, I said with equal candor, "I don't know."

"Hmm. Good answer," my host remarked. Some of his long dark brown tresses, now practically dry, had fallen over his shoulder when he bent down over my form, and I found myself suddenly wishing that I at least could have possessed lush long hair to hide my face behind. My creator had endowed me with hair upon my creation, but the roots did not take and every single strand sewn into my scalp had fallen out within a month of my birth and left me perpetually bald, as if my inherent ugliness was not already bad enough. I knew that men over a certain age tended to experience some degree of hair loss, but I could detect no such traces in the Count, with the possible exception of his high hairline. I felt his hair, textured like fine silk, against my cheek when he pressed closer still, and I could have sworn that I felt his teeth nip at my earlobe.

"What does your gut tell you?" he asked simply, one hand dipping below the water's edge to grasp my erection. His grip, like the rest of him, was strong and sleek, and it only took three or four measured strokes to draw a shuddering climax out of me, callow and inexperienced as I was.

My seed was quickly mixed up with the soapy water and would save me from having to wipe it off my skin, and I wondered what I was expected to do after such a casual delivery of completely one-sided pleasure. My mind, on some level, was still struggling to accept the reality of a wealthy eccentric inviting me into his home and pleasuring me with his hands. How was I supposed to behave towards him after this? Did he expect me to show gratitude or go on as if nothing had happened? Or even reciprocate in some fashion? I tried to picture my hands touching him like he had touched me, and the mental image was in equal parts exciting and revolting.

"You're healthy," my host stated, and his tone revealed that he was impressed. "Healthy and strong. Very good. I should have known." 

He straightened up and stepped around me, absently wiping the hand he'd used to bring me to climax against his trouser front. My gaze lingered on his pelvic area for a second too long in an attempt to spot the shape of a burgeoning erection tenting the fabric, but I saw nothing to indicate sexual arousal in my host. On one hand it made perfect sense; who in their right mind would feel erotic attraction toward a side-show freak like myself, but on the other, it did not explain why the Count had chosen to pleasure me. I was curious by nature and this facet of my character remained the same even after all my consequent failures to establish a lasting contact with another individual.

"Stand up, please," Dracula instructed. 

My bathwater was murky with dirt and grit, and it was starting to cool, now lukewarm at best. I felt cleaner and more looked-after than I'd ever felt in my life, and for this I was deeply grateful, even though I still felt tugs of internal resistance at the thought of standing up and lending the Count a full view of my body. I still did as requested, mindful of my step, as one wrong move on the slippery floor of the tub might very well send me sprawling back into the water in a much less dignified position. 

After wrapping a large bath towel around my shoulders - an action which required him to stand on his tiptoes - he offered me his hand to help steady me as I stepped out of the tub, and I took it out of politeness, not really putting any weight onto it but making a mental note that his grip was surprisingly solid. 

He began to diligently towel me off, his touch entirely business-like and not the least bit sexual or suggestive, which almost caused me to doubt my own experiences from minutes ago. I had had frequent dreams and fantasies of a decidedly erotic nature, but I had - so far - not confused these figments for the real world, whose trials and tribulations I suffered on a daily basis. 

I stood there awkwardly, clutching the bath towel wrapped around my body, deeply uncomfortable with the idea of letting him take it back, but almost equally repulsed by the thought of dressing my freshly-washed body - fragrant for once - in my old clothes; filthy chunks of leather and coarse wool.

As if he had once again read my mind, my host hurried to counter my fears. "I brought you some clothes," he said sweetly and manually gestured towards a pile of neatly folded fabrics which he had obviously brought in with me in mind while preparing my bath. I wanted to interject that nothing he had could possibly fit my gargantuan frame, but he had anticipated this as well and interrupted me before I had managed to voice more than a single syllable of my protest. 

"These clothes belonged to a former servant of mine; Joachim was his name. Big man, strong as an ox. Not quite as tall as you, certainly, but you should be able to wear his clothes until a better option arrives. Don't you agree?"

"Where is he now?" I asked, not sure how comfortable I was with the idea of borrowing clothes from a man who was presumably deceased or no longer in the Count's employ.

"Joachim? Oh, he died of old age. Quite some time ago, I'm afraid. Do not concern yourself with that; I promise you that that these clothes are clean and in pristine condition."

I did not wish to quarrel with my host, so I accepted his explanation and allowed him to remove the bath sheet from around my shoulders, also grudgingly accepting that he would not leave the room or give me privacy whilst I dressed myself. I felt his eyes on me, measuring, taking note… possibly filing the information away to be accessed and processed on a later occasion. I recognized a habit I myself possessed also, but I had a distinct feeling that the Count's use of it differed greatly from mine. 

To my surprise, the clothes actually fit my frame quite well. The trouser legs were too short, ending a good four inches above my feet, and there was a similar problem with the sleeves of the shirt, albeit to a lesser degree. However, I was able to button them both up, at first marveling at the feel of the comparably soft fabric against my freshly washed skin. I'd had to make do with leather and makeshift rags fashioned out of flour sacks until now, and to wear something that signaled my status as a human being brought on a wave of almost overwhelming euphoria. For the first time I felt like a real man rather than a beast clumsily playing the role of one. 

There were no shoes included in the attire, presumably because the Count had realized that nothing he had available would fit my feet. Like everything else I wore on my person, my footwear consisted of oiled leather pieces held in place by strips of fabric. Going barefoot was hardly a new experience for me, and since I tolerated the cold better than most other creatures, I figured I might not mind it terribly. I wondered if my host was truly serious about giving me my own attire, and felt a tightening in my chest from pure excitement. Already this man had done more for me than my own creator had bothered to do since the night he instilled life into me, and I had only known the Count for a few short hours. I did not voice my thoughts, since I suspected I would not be able to verbalize them in any way that made sense in the current context. 

I thanked my host for the clothes, hoping he would not notice or question that my voice was even more gravelly than usual. The Count paid this no heed - either positive or negative - and instead came to stand before me, checking me out in a decidedly appreciative manner, like a man who was proud of his own handiwork. Again I was reminded of Frankenstein and the abject horror in his eyes when he saw me move for the first time, and the memory added to my already burgeoning emotionality. I could not shed tears - my apparatus, such as it was, did not allow it - but I could experience all the other symptoms of weeping, such as a constriction of the throat and swelling of the nasal passages. 

Still smiling, the Count reached up to fold down the collar of my new shirt, simultaneously running his smooth aristocrat's hands down my chest and sides. My body instinctively responded to the affectionate touch, starved as I was for any form of affection, and I was certain that if not for my recent sexual climax, I would have grown hard again.

"Well, look at you now…" Dracula said, sounding almost as if he was trying to convince himself rather than me. "One could almost take you for a real man!"

That one word; almost. It was the story of my life, it seemed. I smiled through my pain, doing my best to pretend as if his statement had been a compliment rather than an insult. 

"Now… Let me show you to your room."

To be continued...


	4. Carnal union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After accepting an offer of shelter from the storm, the Creature learns that Dracula's hospitality has a price.

4.

I had expected to be housed in the servants' quarters - or perhaps even in an unused broom closet - so the Count surprised me once again by leading me up a narrow, winding staircase which connected to an impressive hexagonal tower room. Three large windows ensured the chamber was always properly lit as long as the sky was clear and allowed for an unobstructed flow of moon- and starlight. While the tower windows provided a lovely view of the surrounding nature as well as the sky, I did not particularly like the sun or its effect on my person, so I was silently relieved to discover that thick velvet drapes, if somewhat frayed and moth-eaten, were installed as an option to block out the sun. I considered asking the Count if he usually reserved a room like this for guests of a certain kind, but I bit my tongue, realizing I had no right to question him on his habits or his ideas of hospitality, and that it would be presumptuous of me to assume he'd want to share such intimate information with me. 

In the middle of the room stood a queen-sized four-poster bed with clean bed-sheets wrapped around a somewhat lumpy mattress clearly filled with straw. This particular detail struck me as somewhat strange when juxtaposed with the other obvious markers of wealth, and I wondered if the Count's choice to give me this room had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. 

"Is the room satisfactory to you?" my host asked, and I figured he must have picked up the somewhat bemused look on my face. 

Embarrassed to have been caught thinking unappreciative thoughts, I hurriedly nodded, feeling not the least bit tired despite the fact that it was well past midnight and my day had been a long and trying one. The huge quantities of food I had consumed earlier along with the three goblets of wine were now sloshing around in my gut, having chosen a really inopportune moment to remind me of my reckless overindulgence. A noisy, guttural belch rose up from my stomach and exited my mouth before I could put a conscious stop to it, and I knew that unsuppressed bodily functions, regardless of where they were generated, did not help prove my case that I was a sapient creature - a man with a soul, as it were - trapped in the hideous form of a beastly ghoul. 

The Count, however, remained unperturbed. While there was little doubt that he had been raised in polite society, he clearly paid little heed to the customs and traditions of the continental upper classes. If taking in a deformed wanderer to feed and shelter weren't enough proof of Dracula's unorthodox ways, masturbating said wanderer to climax in a bathtub most definitely was. 

He slithered close to me, and for a moment I thought his mouth looked even redder than before, but I chalked that up to yet another optical illusion. Funny how quickly I had come to accept such things as regular occurrences during my admittedly short time as a guest in this house. 

"If you're satiated for now…" Dracula said, leering, and I had a sneaking suspicion that he was not referring entirely to food or drink, "I will leave you to your own devices. I pray I will not regret extending to you my hospitality." 

I felt a brief surge of anger at the implication that I might abuse his trust by resorting to theft or some other nefarious business; certainly people had expected far worse from me simply based on my unsightly appearance, but I had allowed my rage and frustration get the better of me too many times already, and knew I needed to learn to control my temper to have any chance of surviving in the world of men. I was a thief by definition, as I had been forced to steal on occasion to prevent starvation, but that was always out of sheer necessity rather than malice or greed. Part of me still refused to accept the charity thrust forcefully in my direction and could not let go of the thought that my host would soon come forth with demands of payment in some form or another.

The Count took the opportunity to slip quietly out of the room, and I could even hear the soft sound of his silk robe swishing against his legs as he descended the stairs. Alone at last.

Despite having had quite an eventful day, I was not at all sleepy, most likely because my brain was far too wound-up to desire rest. Sleep was not going to come to me right away in any case, so I decided not to force it. 

Always inquisitive, I directed my attention towards the amenities laid out for me by my host. Having lived my whole life outdoors like a beast, I had never had a proper chance to enjoy toiletries and was therefore somewhat uncertain of how to use the ones now at my disposal. I recognized the pitcher of water and the basin that came with it, as well as the hairbrush, even though I'd have no use for it, but I had some doubts about the sponge and the little black bottle containing some sort of oil-based fragrance. I carefully unscrewed the lid with my oversized fingers and squeezed a small drop out onto the back of one hand, slightly mesmerized by my skin's near-immediate absorption of the substance. I curiously sniffed my hand, allowing the pleasant aromas of fresh pine needles and birch bark fill my airways. 

The Count, an undoubtedly wealthy man, surely had no trouble coming by luxury items even in a remote location such as this, and from what I'd been privy to so far, his tastes ran in the direction of the exotic. 

Included amongst the items was also a hairbrush, which I would not be needing for obvious reasons, and a small pair of scissors intended, I believe, for trimming nails. I looked at my own for a moment and considered taking the scissors to them, but the sad realization that it would only marginally improve my appearance, if at all, made me not want to bother. My thick, blunt nails with their jagged edges were excellent tools for digging through earth, and a large part of my daily sustenance came from roots and vegetables buried in the soil. Still itching to use the scissors for something, I ended up attempting to remove some of the dirt which inevitably congregated underneath the rim of my nails, but with modest success. 

There was no mirror of any size to be found amongst the toiletries, which was hardly a surprise given the Count's obvious but strange dislike of reflective surfaces. 

Curiosity extinguished for now, I walked over to my bed, moderately concerned that the frame would not be able to bear my weight. I took a seat hesitantly on the edge of the straw mattress, prepared to transfer the bulk of my weight onto my legs in case the frame showed signs of breaking. It gave no such indications, and I allowed myself to relax a smidgen, my brain still unused to the security of my current lodgings. The inevitable pessimist within me berated me for letting my guard down, if only for a few short hours, as my circumstances were wont to change again just as rapidly. 

With the feeling of alcohol intoxication having abated somewhat, I lay back against the pillow with my gaze drifting aimlessly along the cracks in the stone ceiling. How old was this house? I wasn't sure I wanted to know. Silly superstition, some would say, but I had a feeling that the building had seen and heard many terrible things and had been forever tainted by these events. I would not go as far as to say I believed in the existence of ghosts, but if objects could absorb energies, the ones projected by the Count's home were decidedly on the negative end of the spectrum. 

My new clothes, while amazingly light and clean, restricted my movement in certain directions, and since I did not want to tear them after only a few hours of use, I decided to take them off and fastidiously folded them up before placing them on top of the oaken chair which accompanied the dressing table. The straw rustled underneath my weight whenever I moved even slightly, but I was no longer afraid of the bed frame giving way. I had not drawn the curtains before laying down and thus the moonshine flowed unobstructed into the room, flooding it from all three windows. I allowed my thoughts to drift and realized I was less bothered by the stark lighting than I had anticipated. I had slept under an open sky enough times to find the silent presence of the moon and stars a comforting rather than irritating constant, and particularly so when I could rest assured that I was not going to get attacked by anyone or anything during my hours of rest. 

I closed my eyes experimentally to see if sleep might come to me, and while it did not, my rare opportunity to relax utterly and completely allowed for certain other urges to resurface. Eyes still closed, I slowly passed my hand down my stomach to knead my rapidly hardening prick with memories of the Count's recent "aid" fuelling my fire. I remembered the feel of his fingers; lean yet strong, silken yet calloused, cool yet fiery… All of them contradictions when weighed up against each other, but there was no denying that his caresses had been the most pleasurable touch of my life. 

I suppose that I had drifted off at some point and unknowingly entered the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness, but the sweet, almost cloying scent of flower perfume coupled with the sensation of something other than my hand on my prick caused me to snap fully awake. The Count lay stretched out on the bed between my slightly parted thighs, and I quickly realized that the unnamable sensation of suctioning warmth was caused by his lips around the head of my cock. 

I did not react at all at first; at least not in a bodily way, because my mind was convinced that it was mired firmly in the lofty substrate of an ongoing dream. The moon drifted in and out of visibility, occasionally blocked by dark clouds, and when the clouds parted both myself and the erotic specter of my dreams - what else could it be? - were soaked up in its harsh glow, giving the scene before my eyes a somehow even more surreal and esoteric quality. 

The Count smiled around my member, and I could not only see the smile, but feel it as well, which planted the first seed of doubt regarding the questionable assumption that this was naught but a dream. Sensory perceptions could be illusory and often were, but what was happening to me now had been picked up by not just one sense, but THREE. On pure impulse I raised my hand and cupped it around the Count's head, both surprised and simultaneously not surprised at the level of detail registered by my fingers. His thick, dark locks, naturally forming ringlet curls, were slightly damp, as if he had bathed shortly before coming up here. Either that or he had gone outside. The scent of his overly sweet floral fragrance accompanied his person like a cloud of mist. I was not sure what to make of it, but it did not occur to me at the time that he might have been using it to mask another scent.

He did not speak, which left me unable to use my ears to substantiate or reject the events unfolding. I was familiar enough with his rather unique voice to recognize it in a flurry of other voices, but I did not believe my mind capable of perfectly replicating it through memory. The memory of his sharp canine teeth, however, served as a reminder of the reality of the situation, and thinking I could feel them grazing my most intimate body part sent a shudder through me; a queer mixture of pleasure and revulsion sprinkled with a healthy dose of fear. 

The Count quickly withdrew his mouth from my privates then, and I realized he had likely interpreted the sudden stiffening of my muscles as an approaching climax. His long white fingers - still as cold as ever, I reflected - squeezed the base of my member presumably to postpone this, and his hair sifted through my fingers like strands of spider web when he craned his neck and angled his face away from my prick. Since my previous orgasm was only hours back in time, my body was not yearning for another one again so soon. He had been the active cause of the previous one, and I momentarily wondered if he thought I was beastly enough to perform for him whenever he wanted.

The pointed tips of his fingernails against my skin had replaced the pressure of teeth, and I both wanted and didn't want for him to resume what he had been doing with his mouth. When he had ensured himself that I would not spend right there and then, however, he relinquished his hold on my prick and began to move toward me in what could be best described as a slithering motion. Up until this point I had not taken note of his state of undress, but I felt it before I saw it and realized the length of his body, pressed against mine from knees to sternum, was all-skin. 

The Count was slight in build and weight, almost all sinews and bone with very little visible muscle or fatty tissue, but I had previously noted that he was deceptively strong for a man with such a - one might say - unimposing physique. His extreme pallor, enhanced by the harsh onslaught of moonlight, was certainly striking in its own way, and I wondered to what lengths he went to preserve such a pristine complexion. Even the most reclusive of aristocrats had to leave their house from time to time, and I knew better than most that sunlight tended to find everyone, including those who took great measures in shielding themselves from it. ¨

Planting his palms firmly against my pectoral muscles, Dracula proceeded to straddle me like a horse. I wondered if I was expected to behave like one, namely stay still and complacently await further instructions from him, or if I he wanted me to do… something. I was nothing short of petrified. With my size and strength, I could have thrown him off easily, but he seemed certain that I would not, just as cognizant of the hypnotic power he wielded over me as I was. His thighs squeezed my sides as though I was indeed a horse, and his cool, silken fingers moved across the broad expanse of my massive ribcage, mapping out the scars and irregularities in my knotted flesh through tactile sensation. No one had ever touched me this intimately before, let alone with such avid devotion, and a small burgeoning hope bloomed within my heart; not only of acceptance but of affection. Of Love. 

My arms lay still, extended parallel to my body, and I dared not raise them even as he leaned forward, head descending over mine and his hot breath - containing a strange coppery scent - washed over my features, no longer completely obscured by the cloying fragrance. The Count's long curls followed suit, and for a moment I was convinced that the hairs tickling my leathery but still acutely sensitive skin would cause me to sneeze. 

Then my host spoke for the first time since joining me up here, stark naked. "Do you want to lie with me?" he asked. Though enunciated perfectly, the words made me doubt my own ears. 

"…what?" I managed to mumble. His tongue darted out from between ruby red lips to lick a long, delightfully moist stripe across my mouth, further feeding into my arousal. My prick, achingly hard, throbbing and straining against my abdomen, certainly liked the idea of the Count's proposition, even though I was not entirely aware of what it entailed. Dracula must have noticed this change in me, because his left hand - the one not busy kneading my chest - reached behind his back to deliver an incentive squeeze. 

"Do… you want… to lie… with me?" he repeated in whispery tones, and for a moment I was convinced that he was really a demon of the incubus variant who had ensnared me and left me with less will of my own than a recently saddle-broken horse; something which my creator had, despite his best efforts, failed at momentously. 

Despite the undeniably bizarre circumstances and my own disturbing thoughts, it did not take me more than half a second to reach a decision. The single word that left my lips and found its way to the Count's ears was "yes". I felt Dracula's toothy smile against my neck just as I had, only minutes prior, felt it around my prick. My host was pleased. 

To be continued...


	5. Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the events of the previous night, the Creature explores Dracula's house on his own and comes across an enchanting library.

5.

As I had neglected to draw the curtains, the rising sun woke me up in a less-than-forgiving manner. The moon - silent, cold and distant, like a jilted lover - had permitted herself to be ignored, but her sibling, the sun, was not nearly as permissive, blasting unobstructed at full strength.

Dracula, of course, was long gone when I woke up, the space beside me cold and deserted. My memories of what had transpired last night were at the same time both hazy and razor-sharp, and had it not been for the fact that the scent of the Count's sickly sweet perfume lingered in the air even after his departure, I might have been tempted to write everything off as a fever dream. 

One I wouldn't mind having again, ashamed though I was to admit this to myself. When I carried out a closer examination of the mattress, I discovered a crusty, partially dried fluid stain easily interpretable as the result of a nocturnal emission. I might have been prepared to discount it as one had I not also found several strands of long dark hair entangled in the coarse fabric fibers. 

I carefully plucked up one of these hairs and held it against my lips, imagining briefly that I could taste the essence of its owner. This mnemonic exercise brought back an association I'd made last night when the Count's lips had hovered over mine and puffs of his breath had washed over my face. The honey-sweet, coppery tang I had noticed but been unable to categorize at the time resembled the taste of fresh blood. 

Reflexively my hands went to my face and neck to check for cuts, but there were no wounds on me; at least none that I could feel. My skin was tough and thick, like an animal's hide, but I had suffered enough bites from domestic dogs to know that it could be pierced by fangs with a certain amount of applied pressure. I recalled the Count's terrible kisses and the way his lush red lips, glistening with moisture, had stretched over his two rows of sharp, pearly white teeth when he bent over me, keeping me immobile through the power of hypnosis. 

This is not to state that I was an unwilling participant or that his advances were unwanted; oh no; I would have been overtly lying to myself if I had claimed such a thing. As a matter of face, had he shown up right in this moment and offered a repeat of last night's activities, I likely would have accepted without hesitation. I knew in my heart that his interest in me was unnatural in more ways than one, but I stubbornly repressed those thoughts, desperate as I was for attention without hostile intent. 

I dressed myself in my fine new clothes and made my toilette - a novel experience, but one that I genuinely cherished and wanted to repeat, if possible - and descended the winding circular staircase. The layout of the house seemed different for some reason that I could not quite articulate; the dark corners and long shadows had, aided by darkness, played a trick on my mind and instilled in me a false sense of exaggerated proportion, and my earlier superstitious fears of having entered a cursed abode suddenly felt much less credible in broad daylight. 

I could almost allow myself to believe that the Count was nothing more than an outrageously eccentric aristocrat whose carnal appetites compelled him to seek relations with people who had been rejected by polite society. 

No one came to greet me when I passed through the corridors, skulking like a ghost despite my great stature. I had accepted the fact that the Count did not employ a staff of servants in his home even though I could not for my life figure out the reason for it, considering that simply maintaining an estate this size was bound to cut many hours from his day; hours that could be spent pursuing other more enjoyable activities. 

Such as soliciting the company of wanderers, beggars and other undesirables and lure them to his house for the purpose of engaging them in sexual congress. Had I been taken advantage of? The thought of it made me halt, both physically and cognitively, and I realized I was still very much undecided on that matter. Seduced, certainly, but I had not been forced at any point throughout my intercourse with the Count, and even now there was nothing to suggest I was being held prisoner or was not free to leave at any time. There certainly were no shackles around my wrists or ankles, but naïve though I was, I knew that there were more ways to imprison a man than to shackle his limbs. 

Deep in thought, I entered the dining room where I had been offered an extravagant feast the night before. Though modest in comparison to that, the table was set, presumably by the Count himself, and a humble yet hearty breakfast had been laid out before me. Some might say it was presumptuous of me to assume it was for myself, even though I was the only present guest and no one had told me to leave, but I was hungry, and until the Count himself announced that he was withdrawing his hospitality, I planned to take full advantage of it. 

There was bread - fine and white enough for me to presume it came from a bakery - and an assortment of cold cuts, of which I went with the least adventurous choices of cheese and ham. Meat was a rare treat for me in my daily existence on the outskirts of human society, and flavored meat was even rarer still. All these foreign new flavors, mundane to some but exotic to me, tickled my palate with such insistence that I felt sorely tempted to pocket the meats for later sampling.

I repressed this greedy impulse and forced it out of my mind, reminding myself that even though I looked like a beast, I needn't act like one. A fresh pot of coffee also stood on the table, kept warm by a beautifully crocheted tea cosy. The coffee itself was hot, black and very bitter, but a spoonful of cream was enough to rectify that problem, and I asked myself if there was a chance I might become addicted to this substance should I choose to consume it on a daily basis. 

Of the Count, there was no sign. He was clearly awake and active, as no one but he could have set the table, but why leave me to my own devices like this? Did he not at all fear I might commit theft or some other dastardly act? Whilst I was undoubtedly honored that he'd placed that amount of trust in me, I also couldn't but wonder why he presumed to know my innate character that well. 

Did he fear I might tell somebody about what happened last night? On second thought that sounded ludicrous to me; who would believe me even if I did, or even want to stay in my proximity long enough to listen? 

Once my stomach was pleasantly full - I would not gorge myself as I did last night - I left the dining room to conduct a more thorough examination of the house. Part of me felt uneasy to wander around without my host's express permission, but my natural curiosity, to which I could attribute both my greatest successes and failures, overrode the feeling of hesitation. 

I tried some doors but found almost all of them locked, and the ones that weren't opened into storage rooms which, judging from the amount of dust they had collected, appeared not to have been used for some time. One of them in particular, which contained a collection of furniture whose make and fabrics suggested immense value, prompted me to question why the Count did not display such markers of wealth and sophistication. 

Had he perhaps acquired more property over the years than he could realistically showcase? Was some - or even most of it - inherited rather than actively acquired? My brain was humming with nonstop questions, and I couldn't help but wonder why I felt such an urge to question and investigate everything I encountered. Surely my life would be so much simpler and more joyful if I'd possessed no more curiosity about the world than the perpetually grazing bovines, completely at ease with the crack of their master's whip, or the lambs oblivious of being led to slaughter. 

Maybe because it offered a welcome distraction from dark thoughts, I was delighted to see one of the doors opening into a small library. I figured it should not have come as a major surprise that the Count held an interest in literature and history, but the sheer amount of books at my disposal was nonetheless staggering. Some of the shelves and the books they contained, just like the stored furniture I had come across earlier, were covered with a thick film of dust, suggesting they had not been disturbed for a very long time, while others displayed signs of frequent use. On the table in the center of the room lay an Atlas that opened naturally to a section of Eastern Europe, as if that particular map had been viewed a lot. 

Given that French was the only language I could profess to be speak fluently, my eyes instinctively scanned the shelves for titles in French. My arguably ambitious foray into the enchanting world of literature had begun with John Milton's epic poem Paradise Lost; a work I had stumbled upon completely by accident, and ever since I - with great enthusiasm - perused the French translation of this masterpiece, I had also desired to study the English original for comparison. 

The Count appeared not to have any sort of indexing system for his books; at least not something that an outsider could observe and make sense of, and the sheer magnitude of accumulated volumes made searching for something a daunting task. I deduced from the appearance and quality of the books, ravaged by moths and time, like the furniture, that quite a few of them had to be older than the man himself, and I wondered why Dracula considered them worth holding on to given the lack of space. 

When these thoughts arrived, I reminded myself that a nobleman's decision-making process, however impractical, was in no way obligated to make sense to me …not even a peasant, but a beast. 

Having found no copy of Paradise Lost in any language, I resorted to selecting a multitude of books from all over the shelves for closer inspection if something about their title or cover captured my interest. The one I was most curious of was a patently ancient tome whose title read in Cyrillic, an alphabet unknown to me at the time. A musty but not entirely unpleasant odor evaporated from the dry, fragile pages when opened it, and I realized my intuition had been right when I discovered that the book was not printed but written entirely by hand. 

Magnificent illustrations which contained an amazing amount of detail despite being so compact conveniently broke up the monotony of text, and I was tempted to touch one of them with the pads of my fingertips to see if the rubies depicted in the miniature painting were mere renderings or actual tiny gemstones. The distinctive hardness and cold, slick angles spoke of more dimensions than just two, leaving me in awe of the handiwork - and more importantly, dedication - that must have gone into crafting these illustrations. I felt, stupidly perhaps, that the book deserved better than to be hidden away and practically forgotten in the household of a nobleman who visibly cared little about either the history or the craftsmanship. This thought was seconded by a fleeting impulse to 'rescue' the book and to protect it, even if it involved illicit and unlawful removal from the Count's home. 

Continually spellbound by the images, I couldn't help but wish I had access to a magnifying glass so that I could examine the works of art on an even more detailed level. Had the long dead artist experienced even a fraction of the same passions as I did simply leafing through these pages? Could I someday, if I poured all my heart and soul into the process, create something of equal magnificence?

My breath hitched in my throat for a second or two when I, at long last, reached the end of the book and was able to feast my eyes on the final illustration. Before me was the portrait of a man; surely a prince or even a king judging by his regal posture and wardrobe. The smallest hint of a smile played about his lips, and his eyes, just as vibrantly green and sparkling as the emeralds sown into his tunic, gazed out into the world with a look of long-suffering benevolence on his comely face. It was not the quality of the painting, albeit superb, that had knocked the air out of my lungs, but the depicted man's unmistakable likeness to my host. The lofty, domed forehead, thin, high aquiline nose and full yet cruel mouth, all features that were perfectly replicated in the Count, could only mean one thing, namely that the man whose home I was currently in was a direct descendant of the man in the painting. 

The Count's willingness to hold on to the century-old handwritten tome was suddenly much easier to comprehend, but although it made no logical sense, it felt almost as if I had stumbled upon a secret I was not supposed to have discovered. An illogical conclusion, I thought, since I could think of no reason for the Count being ashamed of his royal ancestry. 

Unless, of course, said royalty had ended up on the wrong side of history.

I passed my fingertips over the surface of the picture, afraid of disturbing the ancient paper with my coarse skin but drawn to touching it nonetheless. Strands of spun gold had been woven into the piece that represented the prince's crown. In my opinion it resembled an artistic blend of a crown and a halo, most likely as a reference to the bearer's divine right to wear it. 

A smile appeared on my lips, and even though I did not need the addition of words to experience the awe and reverence the picture had inspired within me, I couldn't help but wish I could read what had been written about the prince; to glimpse into his life and find out if he resembled the Count in more than just appearance. 

"Of all places, I never thought I would find you here." 

The voice of my host spoke from the doorway, frightening me and causing my entire body to twitch galvanically. I had not heard Dracula's approach, too engrossed in admiration of the long-dead prince depicted in the illustration. Now that the Count stood before me, I was able to add further detail to my admittedly quite accurate mental recollection of him, and I was now wholly convinced that the uncanny resemblance was not a figment of my imagination. 

"I beg your forgiveness, my lord," I mumbled, feeling like the most nefarious of intruders. What right did I have to enter this place and help myself to my host's accumulated source of written knowledge - evidently dating back many centuries - without first consulting the Count? Even though any excuse I could think of would be insufficient, I decided to forward one all the same. "I merely wished to find a way to pass the time."

Dracula's eyes moved inquisitively between myself and the notable stacks of books I had congregated around me, and then the nobleman's finely plucked eyebrows arched; first in confusion, and then - I dare say - disbelief.

"You can read?" he blurted out, and whereas his eyebrows rose, his jaw dropped. 

For a moment I was not sure if an affirmative response would be well-received, but I nodded anyway, seeing no reason to hide this aspect of myself. "…well, yes," I added carefully. "But not Cyrillic." I glanced down at the book opened before me at the table and then lifted my gaze to regard the Count. 

A momentary narrowing of my host's maroon eyes nearly prompted me to believe he would react with hostility and say that a malformed beast like myself had no right participating in the cultural exchanges of men, but then suddenly they lit up with a previously unseen glee. With just three long steps my host crossed the space between us and the next thing I knew, his hand descended onto my shoulder, and his fingers, cold and sharp like a hawk's talons, were easily felt through the fine material of my new shirt. 

"Who taught you?" Dracula demanded to know, and his fingernails burrowed deeper into my skin. Had my dermal layers not been thicker and tougher than a regular man's and able to withstand much greater mechanical friction, I was convinced he would have pierced my skin with his grip. 

"I taught myself," I replied and not without a small shred of pride. I considered letting him know that his hold was painful, but I had the suspicion he would have interpreted such a statement as an attempt to delay and obfuscate. 

"Remarkable," the Count said, and the speed with which it was said revealed to me that it was an expression of genuine awe. "You are very clever. A clever beast is the most dangerous one." 

He spoke much faster now, which was a sign of growing excitement and one I could never mimic thanks to the limited range of mobility in my lips and facial muscles. I already struggled to produce certain liquid consonant sounds commonly used in the French language, and it occurred to me then that German - a language I had a weak grasp of - with its hard consonants and staccato-like rhythm might suit my lips and throat somewhat better, so I made a mental note to look for books in German and begin the process to strengthen that language. 

I was so lost in thought that I hadn't even noticed the Count's attention being pulled away from me and onto the book which lay open before me on the table. His pallid, long-fingered hand, adorned as usual by a sizable ruby ring, rapped against the historical prince's beautifully painted face with a surprising amount of emphasis. 

"Vlad II," he said casually but with a distinct sharpness to his voice, as if he really wanted me to listen closely. "Nicknamed 'The Dragon' by his subjects, and later, his enemies. Voivode of Wallachia between the years of 1436 and 1447. Are you familiar with the history of Transylvania, my friend?"

I carefully shook my head.

"But it interests you, yes?" the Count inquired, seating himself on the table next to the open book. Due to my abnormally inflated height, we were practically on eye level now, but Dracula's regal bearing still allowed him to stare me down, and I did not challenge him. 

"The Prince," I said, daring to touch the portrait since he had done the same only moments ago, "…he resembles you a lot. Is he an ancestor?" It was a bold question, and I was aware of this fact, but the Count had shown many times already that he enjoyed it when I challenged him. 

My host's cold, clammy fingers found mine on top of the paper and I couldn't help but be reminded of the very same fingers squeezing my prick last night with commanding skill. Had my skin allowed it, I would have doubtlessly manifested a blush, but when the Count's gaze caught mine, I did not try to avert it. 

"I am, as one would say, a direct descendent," he replied smoothly and with obvious pride. 

"You are from Romania, then, my lord?" I asked, taking the gamble of pressing further. 

"Originally, yes," my host said with a small incline of his head. "It will always be my home, but the people there are…" He made a dramatic pause, searching for the right descriptive adjective. "…bland. Dull. Devoid of life. Devoid of… blood." 

Devoid of blood? It was a strange way of framing things, but before I could ask my host to elaborate, Dracula lifted his hand and passed his icy fingers over my lips in a shushing motion. 

"You know of what I speak," he said. "I care little for the outside. It's what's on the inside that matters. You, my friend… ought to know that better than anyone." As he uttered these words, his touch became a caress, which in turn induced a shudder along my spine. I was still deeply unaccustomed to being touched gingerly and without intent to cause harm, and the Count, though not hostile, still intimidated me a bit with his cryptic speech and intense, almost hypnotic gaze. 

"I never judge a book by its cover," Dracula said, and even though I was familiar with this particular figure of speech, I couldn't help but feel like there was more to his words; something I had yet to figure out. "And clearly, neither do you."

He proceeded to summarily close the ancient book containing the depiction of his ancestor, Vlad II of Wallachia, which unleashed yet another puff of foul, moldy air into the cramped room. The Count, however, was unbothered and showed no sign of even having noticed it. 

"If you are aspiring to master the Cyrillic alphabet, you ought to try learning Russian first," Dracula commented casually. "Grammatically and syntactically it is a far easier language to absorb than your choice here."

"This is not… in Russian?" I asked with slight hesitation, not wanting to give him the impression of having overestimated my intelligence.

"Ahh… no. Bulgarian." The Count smirked, trailing his index finger across the Cyrillic letters which made up the title. "The Battle of Targoviste," he read out loud, still speaking French but falling into his country's habit of wheezy pronunciation. "Look, my friend, should you decide to read this, be warned that the Bulgarians have a long history with my family, and not all of it was joyful or positive. Their account of this particular historical event are… tainted, if you wish. Distorted by their hatred of this great man."

I assumed he was still talking about Vlad II, the man known as The Dragon for reasons yet unknown to me. The deep veneration expressed by the Count for his historically unremarkable ancestor who lived over three centuries ago intrigued me and made me curious to know more, but I did not speak my thoughts in fear of offending my host.

"If you seek reading as a pastime…" Dracula said, changing tracks, "…I have a few recommendations." He went to acquire something from a shelf across the room and returned momentarily with a thin booklet titled simply 'Candide' with the subtitle 'ou l'Optimisme' written in a smaller type directly below. No author was credited on the cover, and this made me suspect my host had acquired a copy of a secretive publication banned because of either politically subversive or blasphemous content.

"It is a satire," Dracula offered, once again surprising me by intuiting my curiosity. "…and it is also one of the most clandestine publications of the century. I believe you could be charged with blasphemy for simply possessing a copy. Oh, well…" He laughed; a low, rumbling sound that communicated his attitude with crystal clarity. "…I have never cared much for convention or the status quo. Rulers, no matter how great, come and go. The King has his reign, and then he dies. Unless, of course, he can be immortalized through his ideas." 

As if that needed pointing out, I thought, but my host had done his part in awakening my interest in the so-called clandestine publication, and I couldn't wait to partake in the contents authorities such as the Christian church had declared not only immoral and indecent, but downright illegal. 

The Count's spindly fingers slid smoothly across the width of my back like the soft caress of an immaterial spirit, and his voice, equally soft and honeyed, said, "Take your time with the book. When you desire refreshments, there will be a supper laid out on the dining room table." A moment of silence, and then he added, "You will, I trust, excuse me if I do not join you. I am going to dine out tonight."

And I, it seemed, would be dining at the nobleman's table just like yesterday. 

To be continued...


	6. A repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Creature gains further carnal knowledge of his host and learns that things are not always what they seem...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some period-typical misogyny and homophobia mentioned in this chapter. If those are your triggers, tread carefully.




The second time he came to my bed was three nights after the first. His footsteps must have been near-silent, as I was not made aware of his approach until I saw the door handle move and the Count appeared in the doorway, clad in nothing but a simple white, semi-transparent nightshirt of linen that reached his mid-thighs. He carried no lamp or candle, and it occurred to me then that he must be intimately familiar with the winding stairs to have the confidence to climb them in complete absence of a light source.

I hurried to light my oil lamp, as I wanted to see him properly this time and not rely on the moon and stars for illumination. The flickering orange glow helped soften his strong aquiline features and would have lent him an air of approachability if not for the strange reflection of red flames in his eyes, which I perceived at the time to be not quite… natural. The concept itself fazed me surprisingly little; I was an abomination without a natural fiber in my body, my existence alone an affront to the natural order, and although the Count was visibly nothing like me, he must have known I would not reject him if he revealed another side of himself, whatever that might be.

Without having spoken a word, my host pulled the single garment he was wearing over his head in one fluid motion, baring himself to me, again prompting me to wonder why such an exquisite creature would seek intercourse - social or sexual - with a disfigured troll such as I.

After the first time, I had occasionally doubted my own memory and wondered if our carnal union had been nothing but a figment conjured up by my libidinous imagination; a fear that was spurred on by the Count's indifference toward me the following morning. I was certain now that this was no dream or fantasy; there was simply no chance of my admittedly bountiful imagination producing perceptions with such amazing attention to detail. When Dracula ventured close enough for me to touch him, I noticed that his body was not without flaws, his smooth marble skin, marred in places by scars that were prominent but not disfiguring, spoke of a past with elements of extreme violence.

Had he been a soldier? One scar in particular drew my attention; it was located a few centimeters right of his left nipple, and had been inflicted by some kind of stabbing weapon. I knew that the odds of surviving such a devastating injury to one's chest were poor if not completely nonexistent, and briefly I wondered if this man had been one of the lucky ones or if there was something else at work here; something he had not yet disclosed to me.

Mesmerized by his ethereal beauty, which - in my opinion - was only enhanced by the minor blemishes, I reached out to touch him, loath as I was to watch my large ungainly hand caress his skin. The pads of my fingertips brushed against his nipple, which hardened instantly under my touch, and I was reminded of the fact that his nipples, like his lips, were of an unusual coloration when contrasted with the rest of his skin tone. They were like small carmine buttons on his chest, not entirely dissimilar to two specks of blood on an otherwise white canvas.

The Count grasped my wrist with both hands and redirected my touch to his nether regions. While clearly not repulsed by my presence or my interest in him, he also showed no outward signs of sexual arousal, his member not the least bit stiff. I gave it a few awkward and experimental tugs, mindful that my broad, inexperienced fingers and jagged fingernails could easily inflict pain without any intent on my part to do so. There was a small degree of tumescence then, and I sincerely hoped I would be able to give him pleasure as he had given me despite my obvious lack of knowledge or skill.

Still not having spoken a word, he knelt on the edge of the mattress, thighs parted, clearly showing through his body language that he appreciated the attention and wanted it to continue. For a man, the Count was unusually devoid of body hair. There was some around his member and smatterings of dark hair on his chest, but it was both sparse and fine, like that of a boy veering on the cusp of manhood. Whilst Dracula's exact age was difficult for me to pinpoint, there was absolutely no doubt that he was anything but a fully mature man soon to enter mid-age, so this particular aspect of him only added to the mystery of his being.

"Do you like what you see?" he asked then, his tone strangely dispassionate and clinical for such an intimate question.

"Yes," I replied at once. Being seated on the bed brought me to eyelevel with his kneeling self, and once again I found myself wishing that I were man-sized and not the gigantic, hulking ogre Frankenstein had assembled from cadaver parts, some of which were not even human. People would still hate and fear me, no doubt, but it would have made blending into a crowd easier.

"But… why?" I asked then, emboldened by something I could not name but was likely created out of a need to form a secure attachment. I could not stand the thought of yet another rejection, and I needed reassurance that the Count had no ulterior motives for giving himself to me, as I could not trust myself to handle such news should it surface on a later occasion. "Why me?"

Dracula did not answer immediately. Instead he flopped down on his back and regarded me quizzically through his queerly colored eyes. I preferred us to remain on eyelevel with each other, so I laid down as well and studied his face while I waited for a reply, outwardly patient even though my heart was hammering wildly within my massive ribcage. The sound of it was so loud to my ears that I was convinced he could hear it as well. Was I going to face rejection again for cornering him in this way? If so, at the very least I thought I deserved a proper explanation.

Dracula rolled onto his side and rested his chin in his hand, his gaze never deviating from mine. "I can't always… perform," he said, followed by a tired exhale, but although he had just admitted a potentially very embarrassing fact about himself to me, I could not detect any real trace of shame in his face or demeanor. He seemed to regard it as more of an inconvenience, if anything.

"Women tend to take it personally," the Count added, tilting his head to one side and eyeing me curiously across the expanse of the bed. I struggled to interpret his words and get to the core of what he was trying to communicate, so I remained silent, waiting for him to extrapolate further.

"They believe they're not beautiful enough or desirable enough… or young enough. And men…" He shrugged with implicit casualness and pursed his lips. "I tend to the attract the type of man who prefers to assume the role of a woman between the sheets. A sexual invert. Do you know what that is?"

I shook my head, although my imagination was already rife with possible interpretations, each more ribald and lascivious than the previous. The Count, who lay on his side facing me with his beautiful, lean, pale form stretched out like a woman in a painting by a renaissance master, narrowed his eyes and leaned towards me until our noses were practically touching. There was a conspiratorial quality to his gleaming eyes, and I felt more strongly than ever that we shared a bond that allowed him to let his guard down and exchange secrets with me. The idea of having been elected for such an honorable position was almost as intoxicating and heady as the sight of him in my bed, naked and willing let me penetrate his flesh in spite of my hideous outward qualities. Maybe I was not going to face rejection this time, after all.

"A catamite," he said as an answer to his earlier question. "Someone who prefers to be buggered." It was a vulgar term, but occasionally crude language was more effective than its more polite counterpart in getting the point across, and I strongly believed this to be one of those occasions. "But not you," he said, grinning widely and running his long, pointy fingernails lightly across my chest, canine teeth on full display. The intensity of his gaze - particularly the palpably famished nature of it - alongside the skillful ministrations of his hand quickly brought me to full hardness, and the sight of my arousal, straining and curving up toward my belly, made his grin widen.

"I could sense your desires the moment I saw you. Well, almost. I knew what you wanted and that I could give it to you." He inched closer to me, suddenly serious, and I felt his hand trail downward only to close around my engorged member and deliver a couple more measured strokes.

He was the first person to touch me this way apart from myself, and for a second or two, I was embarrassingly certain that I would spill right then and there, in his hand, before things could progress further. The Count seemed to realize this as well and withdrew his touch, but not before giving my painfully erect manhood an almost intolerably tight squeeze, as if to tease me.

"You wish to mount me, and I will allow it," he said, his words a moist exhale against my neck, which in itself was highly arousing. "In bed I will be your woman, but everywhere else I will be your master. Do you understand?"

Had I entered this situation with a somewhat clear head, I might have questioned this odd request and its implications, but with his body grinding wantonly against mine with the promise of short-term bliss, I would probably have agreed to any arrangement.

Granted I had lain with him once before, but he had been sitting astride me then, which effectively rendered him in control of every movement, no matter how slight. I could still vividly remember both the sight and feel of my phallus gradually disappearing into his body and the surrealistic quality of said sensation. I had not thought it possible that two of the same sex could be joined this way, and I struggled even more to comprehend how he could take enjoyment in it. I wanted nothing more than to rut with him again, but I was also curious of his body - of the particulars of his anatomy - in a way that was not purely erotic, and I wanted to ask him if I could examine him more intimately before coupling with him.

"Do we have an understanding?" the Count asked. Now he spoke with a slightly sharper edge to his voice, and I nodded, not knowing what else I could do or say.

He smiled contentedly then, resembling a well-fed cat, and pulled me in for a kiss. As previously, his kisses were affectionate but shallow, involving no connection of tongue or teeth. I ran my hand down his hip, exploring the sharp, angular lines of his body, mindful that my dirty, jagged fingernails were more suitable for digging through soil than applying a lover's caress. All my erotic fantasies prior to this had mainly involved a nameless, faceless female partner whose body was soft and rounded, and I realized my thoughts would need some rearranging to become accustomed to this… change.

He kissed the corner of my mouth, apparently not minding that my shriveled, lopsided upper lip left my teeth perpetually exposed. This was as close to unconditional acceptance that I had ever come, and I believe this was the moment I understood that I loved him and would do anything for him.

Pulling me towards him, he hooked one long, slender leg around my waist and then rubbed our pricks together, mine stiff and weeping with arousal, and his only half-hard. I was still in the process of mentally digesting his explanation from minutes ago and tried not to regard his lack of an erection as lack of desire, but the part of my psyche that constantly served to remind me of my inherent worthlessness whispered venomous words into my soul, reminding me that my new lover secretly abhorred my touch and only pretended to fancy me for some sinister purpose currently unknown to me.

I gently unwound his arms from around my neck and held him at arm's length, which prompted a confused frown from him. I intuited that the man beside me was not used to rejection in any form whatsoever, and I did not want him to believe I was rejecting him even for a second, so I hurried to voice my desires.

"May I look at you first?" I asked, and when his frown momentarily deepened, I feared I had overstepped and accidentally offended him with my lack of manners. Then he seemed to understand my intentions and the scowl disappeared in an instant, quickly replaced by an indulgent smile. However, without showing teeth.

"Certainly," the Count said, leaning back against the pillows, his bearing regal despite the quaint nature of my little tower bedroom. I wondered then what his personal chambers were like and whether he would ever invite me into his bed instead of coming to mine. I did not ask, because it would have been rude and potentially caused an interruption in our activities, but also because I suspected I might not like the answer. I maneuvered his pliant body into a position that easily allowed me to look him over from head to toe and gently parted his thighs, situating myself between them.

I was familiar enough with his phallus to know that its basic anatomical structure was similar to my own, and yet there were also some marked differences: the skin which surrounded my shaft was pulled back tightly at all times, leaving my most sensitive part exposed even when I was not erect. The Count's organ was constructed differently in this regard, with generous amounts of loose, excess skin completely concealing the head from view. Intrigued by this disparity, I grasped his prick between my thumb and forefinger, and since I received no rebuke from him, I presumed I was free to continue my exploration of his genitalia. I noticed it was possible to pull the skin back even though he was not fully erect, and when doing so, I saw another peculiar anatomical feature reveal itself: the head of his cock was a similar shade of red as his lips and nipples, and my mind was momentarily harried by the gruesome mental image of skin so damaged and eroded that the flesh underneath was peeking through.

Dracula must have seen my sudden lapse in self-control and pushed himself into a half-seated position with his elbows, body no longer relaxed. "What is the matter?" he asked interrogatively, presenting with the new beginnings of a scowl.

"Nothing," I replied, shaking my head as if to rid myself of the final remnants of my treacherous thoughts. "You're lovely," I added in an admittedly weak attempt to rectify my mistake and preserve the positively loaded atmosphere. To emphasize my statement, I lifted his leg and pressed a kiss to his knee, something which caused him to chuckle. I allowed myself to relax a smidgen, hopeful that I had avoided angering him.

"Have you seen enough of me yet?" he asked, tilting his head to one side and gazing up at me with an almost theatrical degree of coquettishness. It took my randy mind a moment too long to catch on and realize I was being played with, and thus I was still fumbling for words when my host began to snicker and slapped me playfully on my backside.

"What were you looking for down there? A cunt?" His use of crude language was in equal parts calming and embarrassing; the former because it reassured me that he was not cross with me, and the latter because it forced me to confront my ignorance and inexperience in the department of lovemaking.

"No, I know you don't have a-- I know you are a man," I said, struggling to form words. My already tenuous control over my tongue and vocal cords tended to deteriorate under stress, and I was convinced I sounded even more like a troglodyte trying to mimic human speech through primitive animal vocalizations. "But I've never seen a woman, or a man… Not so close or completely…" What was the right word, again? "Exposed."

It was the truth; while I had watched men opening their trousers to urinate, sometimes shamelessly in full view of the public, I had never seen a completely unclothed man before, let alone touched one. Of women I had seen even less; I knew, of course, that they did not have a dangling appendage between their legs but not much beyond that. I had deduced what sexual intercourse was like from certain crude drawings in books and understood that our union was a modified version of the act between a man and a woman. I vividly recalled the slick heat of his internal passage squeezing and cradling the most sensitive part of my body with expert skill, and I had preserved the memory of said event with as much detail as my brain could muster, intent on cherishing it and reliving it in my thoughts should it never happen again.

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'naked'," Dracula said with the arching of one delicately plucked eyebrow, and there was a teasing quality to his gaze when he unexpectedly lifted his foot and proceeded to deliver a mischievous nudge against the flat of my abdomen. I recognized this as an invite to participate in a good-natured play-wrestle between friends, but because I knew my own size and remained fully cognizant of the sinister fact that I had the strength to easily tear a man apart limb by limb, I was hesitant to engage out of fear of harming my only real friend in the world.

"You won't hurt me," the Count said confidently, as if he'd read my thoughts. His foot slid lower until the sole was pressed firmly against the hard length of my prick. I had enough experience of brawls to know that a kick to the testicles was incredibly painful and the aftereffects tended to linger for hours after the blow was delivered, so having his foot pressed up against this area was mildly disconcerting, especially in my current state of arousal. He curled his long toes around my shaft in a mockery of a manual caress and I had to confess to myself I found it highly stimulating. His toenails, however, were unusually long and sharp just like his fingernails, and I felt one of them scratch my erection hard enough to graze through the outermost layer of skin, and - as I realized moments afterward - inflict pain.

"Stop that!" I growled reflexively and grabbed his ankle, yanking him towards me, but he was quick and twisted out of my grasp while simultaneously causing us both to topple over in a tangle of limbs. He also had experience in grappling, that much I could tell, but probably not with someone in my weight division unless he had previously wrestled bears. I pinned him against the mattress by his upper arms and grinded my hips against his, no longer as concerned about the size difference or the added potential of hurting him with my zeal.

Writhing beneath me in what I deemed to be a blend of desire and antagonism, the Count buried his claws in the flesh of my shoulders, red lips pulled back over his teeth, eyes ablaze.

"Are you really going to fuck me, or do you expect me to do all the work like last time, hmm?" he asked, and I was unsure if this was still playful banter or if it had crossed over to something akin to an actual challenge. On impulse I parted his thighs with one hand and gripped the base of my member with the other, suddenly determined to prove I was up for the task. My clumsy attempt at entering him was followed by a sharp hiss of pain, and moments later he shoved hard at my chest, definitely no longer in a playful mood.

"You cannot go in dry, you witless oaf!" he snarled, cheeks and neck flushed red hot from a sudden rush of blood to his skin. I withdrew from him, ashamed to have angered him so, but without a true understanding of where I had erred. 

"Forgive me, please," I said, shrinking back from the explosion of fury. I was prepared to see him leave or even withdraw his offer to host me altogether, but his wrath evaporated as quickly as it had come into being and he lay back down, gesturing at me to do the same.

"I should not have yelled," he said, pursing his lips in an expression of regret. "But please understand that it is not a cunt. It does not get wet by itself. You will have to apply that artificially."

"H-how?" I stammered, trying very hard to remember this particular sequence of events the first time we laid together. I had felt more like a spectator than an active participant then, so his request for an artificial lubricant did not immediately strike a chord in me.

Dracula motioned toward the white-painted oak cabinet situated against the wall at the opposite end of the room. "Look in the top drawer," he instructed with a surprising degree of patience. "And bring back the vial of rose oil. It has a nicer scent than plain lamp oil, wouldn't you say?"

I felt strangely self-conscious when I stood up and walked away from the bed, and I couldn't help but wonder if the Count saw a towering monstrosity - a walking, talking lump of flesh, barely more than a homunculus, stitched together into the crude shape of a man - whom he merely humored for one reason or another, or if he genuinely enjoyed my company. He was not compelled by any means to keep me around, so I slowly and carefully allowed myself to hope for the latter, unlikely though it was, as experience had taught me.

As Dracula had instructed, I brought the small clear glass vial containing the rose oil back to bed with me. My erection had flagged somewhat from lack of stimulation, and the Count eyed it thoughtfully before accepting the vial from me. 

"Hold out your hand," he requested, uncapping the lid with an attached pipette and very carefully tilted it until a fat, round drop of pale orange liquid appeared, immediately radiating a strong, pleasant and deeply aromatic floral fragrance. Such oils were expensive, but given what I had seen of the Count's lifestyle so far, it was hardly surprising that he could afford all kinds of luxury items. It seemed he did not trust I would have the fine motor skills necessary to handle such delicate equipment, and perhaps he was right to make that assumption.

"Now rub it on yourself," he continued, and it took me a moment to realize he was referring to my phallus. I wanted to ask if there was a possibility of skin irritation, as the pungent odor suggested this was a highly concentrated solution, but I did not want any more interruptions taking place, so I did as requested and coated my parts with the substance. The first sensation that reached my brain was one of coolness, soon accompanied by a pleasant tingle. The reminder of what was about to occur between us was enough to bring me back to full hardness; something that earned me an appreciative glance from the Count. My heart was filled with pride; not once had my creator or any other man looked at me with such adoration and longing.

Thighs parted, my host beckoned me to join him with the crook of a finger, and I began to crawl towards him on all fours, somewhat more hesitant this time around. He had just shown me that he had a temper, and I did not want to be on the receiving end of it anymore than I had to.

"Now," he said with dialectical slowness, "you prepare me."

I understood that some of the lubricant would need to be applied onto him as well, but I hardly knew where to begin, let alone how to initiate. In spite of being hideously malformed, I knew out of familiarity with my own anatomy that there was an orifice down there through which waste was expelled, but I had not seen his properly until now, as the surrounding structures hid it well.

Due to its location nestled between his buttocks, I felt it with my fingers before I saw it, the skin wrinkled and puckered and a couple of shades darker than his general complexion. I slid a slickened finger inside, alert for any signs of pain or discomfort from my partner, but there were none, so I continued my digital examination. His well-muscled passage gripped my finger solidly from all directions, and while I had come to accept that it could shrink and expand much like a phallus, I could still not quite fathom how it would be able to accommodate mine.

Dracula had stacked the pillows behind his back, which allowed him to comfortably assume a half-seated position and - I suspected - a view of what I was doing. He stretched his long limbs, all four at once, again reminding me of a satiated feline. "Are you ready?" he asked, and I found myself nodding mutely, my throat too dry and constricted to form words.

This time he did not cry out or shove me away when I entered him. I believe I could glimpse a fleeting expression of pain on his face, but it was gone the following second, and he cradled my enormous, asymmetrical skull in his hands, communicating a mixture of tenderness and raw animal passion. His insides, surprisingly warm compared to his cool skin, squeezed my sheathed length, and I allowed some of my weight to fall onto him while still supporting most of it on my arms. Due to the marked difference in size, his face would inevitably end up in my chest if our bodies were pressed flush against each other, and I wanted to see him; I wanted to sample every expression of bliss that manifested on his face, as I never could have dreamed of myself being the source of such a pleasurable response in another.

"Move," he commanded breathily, still undeniably in charge even though he was pinned beneath my weight and had willingly assumed the submissive role in our act. I hesitantly obeyed, holding back in fear of both hurting him and of finishing embarrassingly soon. He ran his delicate-looking hands along the back of my torso, kneading the solid muscle underneath my skin a bit more harshly than one would expect from a lover, but any pain he inflicted was quickly overshadowed by the throbbing sensation in my lower abdomen.

"Move. Now," he growled, swollen red lips pulled back in a snarl. I made a few awkward attempts at thrusting, and he eagerly met them, his slim but surprisingly strong legs wrapped around my hips like a hungry boa constrictor. He continued to goad me and urge me on, at times very aggressively, and I permitted it to a point, but when he delivered a slap to my face hard enough to bruise my lip, I retaliated by slamming him bodily against the mattress and released a growl of my own to match his.

Something happened then; his maroon eyes exploded into pits of black, and he proceeded to mash our mouths together with a bizarre and savage desperation, finally giving something that he had previously steadfastly denied me, namely an open-mouthed kiss. The sharp points of his teeth grazed against my lips and tongue, and for a split second I could have sworn his aim was to feed on something within my mouth, and his fervent kisses were simply a means to acquiring it. When we finally parted, my blood was smeared across his lips and chin, and despite the fact that he was looking directly at me, it also felt like he did not even see me.

"You're good," he whispered, and there was suddenly a throaty, almost guttural quality to his voice that had not been there previously. "I'll have to keep you around for some time. Now fuck me!"

And I did. I suppose it occurred to me at some point during the act that I might break something inside him - a bone, a ligament or a blood vessel - and possibly cripple him for life or even kill him, but I doubt anything short of a loud, violent expression of pure agony could have made me stop once I had my climax within reach. His hands returned to my head, applying caresses and scratches indiscriminately. Perhaps he instinctively reached for my hair and clawed at my bare scalp when finding none, or perhaps he was fully cognizant of what he was doing all along; it mattered little in the end. I rode him hard, almost savagely, simultaneously both amazed at how well his body adjusted to such a violation and grateful to him for choosing me to provide it. I found no reason whatsoever to inhibit my performance or hide my own expression of pleasure, as the man pinned underneath me had done his part in earning my complete trust.

On one hand, my orgasm arrived disappointingly soon, but on the other it was one of, if not _the_ most satisfying experience of my entire short, miserable life. Waves of raw, unadulterated pleasure radiated from my groin and merged together, creating a ripple effect which my body was not prepared for by a long shot, and to my brief shock and embarrassment, I found my arms giving way, which caused my convulsing form to collapse onto that of my host.

Dracula writhed under my weight, his breathing slow, steady and controlled, while mine was rapid, ragged and spasmodic. He allowed me time to recuperate from my intense climax - how long I could not say - before pushing at me to move. My softening prick had slid out of him at some point, and the sensation of intense bliss was replaced by mild discomfort as even the cool draft from the nearby window felt overwhelmingly harsh against my engorged sex, rubbed raw from the recent vigorous activities. I wondered if the oil had exacerbated this issue and considered getting out of bed in order to wash my parts, but I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep, so I elected not to.

Then I turned my head to look at the man beside me and belatedly realized that while I had found my release, he had yet to find his. I wanted to apologize for my lack of consideration of his needs, but I could not find the words and awkwardly reached out to touch him instead. The Count, however, tiredly batted my fumbling hand away from his groin and shook his head with a look of resignation on his hawkish face.

"Don't mind me," he said with a soft snort. "I usually don't, in any case." He looked different now; more human, somehow, and I noticed that his eyes had returned to their original ambiguous shade of maroon. A thin sheen of sweat coated his pale, semi-translucent skin, and it occurred to me that I could see the fine network of bluish veins not only on his arms and chest as before, but in various places on his body.

"Thank you for the fuck," he said unexpectedly, and I found his choice of words somewhat strange albeit endearing. "You did well. You could work on your stamina, but with your level of inexperience, I'm more than satisfied. You'll improve, I'm sure of it." He gave me an amicable but not very intimate pat on the knee before standing up and walking unabashedly toward my washbasin without any visible trace of pain in his gait. I watched him from behind, in equal parts fascinated and mesmerized by the graceful, effortless fluidity of his movements, and once again I asked myself what he was doing, consorting with an ogre such as I.

Dracula soaked a linen washcloth in cold water and proceeded to wipe away the residue of our union from the insides of his thighs. I realized that most of my spend had ended up inside of him and would likely remain there unless he promptly gave himself a therapeutic enema, but he seemed unconcerned with that particular aspect of our act. He dipped a second rag in the water, wrenched the excess wetness from it, and threw it at me. My reflexes, faster than any man's, helped me catch the object mid-air, and a small, almost imperceptible raise of the Count's eyebrows revealed that he was impressed.

"Wipe yourself clean," he instructed. "You do not want the oil to dry against your skin. It will be hell to scrub it off if you don't do it immediately."

Despite the fact that my member was still sore and reacted painfully to my touch, I followed the Count's instructions and began to clean it, subconsciously reminded of his earlier statement that he was to be my master out of bed, unconditionally. He picked up his discarded nightshirt from the floor, but with no intent on putting it back on, and gave me a quick toothy smile before heading squarely toward the door.

"You're leaving?" I rasped, my chest blooming with bitter disappointment. For some reason it had not occurred to me until now that he might not want to remain with me after our carnal union, or to sleep beside me like a lover or a trusted friend.

For the briefest of moments, Dracula looked genuinely befuddled, but said expression was quickly replaced by a sly, cocky grin. "You want a second go, is that so?" he asked wryly, and it was easy to tell from the tone of his voice that he was not serious. "You truly _are_ an automaton!"

Another orgasm this soon after my previous one was truly the last thing on my mind and I realized I would likely not be able to perform even if I'd wanted to.

"No, I…" I interrupted myself and sat up, holding out my hand to him. "Just stay for a while," I pleaded, ashamed though I was to resort to begging. I had been so lonely my whole life, and if I'd had to make suppositions about my mental state at the time, I would have guessed that the spiritual component of being with somebody had yet to sink in, and I therefore felt the need to test the veracity of the experience.

The Count then did something odd; I saw his eyes seek out the eastern sky through the window, as though his decision on whether or not he could stay with me hinged on what he saw there. Whatever it was, he had good news for this lonely wretch.

"I can stay for a while," he announced, dropping the linen shirt and turning to rejoin me in bed, albeit not in a hurry. I watched him walk again - truth to be told, I don't think it would even be possible for me to ever tire of such a sight - and felt a surge of both potent desire and bitter envy. My own body would never move with such grace and confidence, let alone be admired by another living soul, man or woman.

Dracula must have noticed the veil of darkness which fell across my features, because he hesitated and stopped in his tracks just a foot or so shy of the bed. It almost broke my heart to think he might fear me now like everyone else, and before I had a chance to assess the situation more closely, I was fighting back tears.

"Now, now," the Count said in a mildly admonishing tone as he made room for himself next to me. His lithe, sinewy body barely made the mattress dip in, whereas my own depressed it greatly, and I continually had to adjust my position so as not to break the bed frame. "I will allow no self-pity in my house. You will do well to remember that."

I blinked away the emerging tears. "Yes," I said hoarsely.

"Yes, what?" Dracula pushed, patting me again.

"Yes... Master," I followed and felt a surge of relief when I saw contentment on his visage.

"I don't mind a bit of temper every now and then," he continued. "Lord only knows I am guilty of such overtures myself. But self-pity is a cursed weakness which will get you nowhere in this world, and anyone who succumbs to its vile and useless pull will receive nothing but contempt from me. Do you understand?"

I nodded; not only to please him, but because I really thought he had introduced a worthwhile philosophical axiom into my world. It made me wonder about his life before I'd entered it. Had the Count written anything for publication? He certainly had a way with words and a mind sharp enough to both enthrall and control the masses through the use of his pen. Flocks of people, barely more than sheep, were toiling their lives away on the fields and in the factories, desperately looking for something - anything - to introduce an illusion of meaning into their mundane, onerous existence. Did he realize how easily he could give them exactly that and in return have them revere him?

"You are thinking again," my host said, interrupting my current train of thought. "I can see it. What were you thinking of?"

"Nothing important," I half-lied, then impulsively decided to be more straightforward. "I don't know anything about you. Not where you come from, what you do for a living, or what your purpose for me is."

Once the words were out, I feared they had come across as more of a hostile accusation than a simple request for more information, and I prepared myself to hear the news that I had offended the Count. My new _master_. The use of that title held a certain degree of both dread and allure.

"I will let you know more, in time. When you are ready," Dracula said. I did not like the vague nature of his response, but if I tried to push for more information at this time, I was likely to hit a solid brick wall of resistance.

In an attempt to distract me and make me more amenable to his way of thinking, he began to draw circles on my chest with his fingers, and when his fingernails brushed up against a particularly sensitive spot, I jerked up as if electrocuted, but the Count merely laughed.

"You are ticklish. How sweet," he said, and I wondered if he truly knew how unused I was to such casual, affectionate touch, or for that matter how generally touch-starved I was. "I am going to ask you to trust me for now," he added, and there was a noticeable shift in his eyes from playful to somber. "I know that is asking a lot, but it is the best I can give you at this time. Will you accept?"

I intuited that a negative response would result in a complete termination of our association, and I did not wish for that to happen, so I nodded again but reminded myself to press the issue whenever possible in the future. The Count, happy that I had backed down with so little prompting, smiled indulgently again and laid his head on my chest, appearing fascinated with the powerfully beating heart within my ribcage. I knew from having had access to my creator's journal that he had given me the heart of an ox harvested from a slaughterhouse, as no human heart had the strength or capacity to pump blood around my gargantuan frame.

Dracula looked up without asking any questions about my abnormal physique, and I was relieved, as I probably would have been unable to answer most of them anyway, having only the most rudimentary access to the mind that had devised my creation. I affectionately cupped his jaw, feeling for beard growth but finding none, which was another odd thing to come across in a mature man. My own beard grew in disjointed patches and I shaved it with a straight razor whenever I could; however, due to my unwillingness to look at my own reflection for any amount of time, it was not often. Curious of his uncommonly shaped teeth, I suddenly lifted his upper lip with my thumb, thinking this was a good opportunity to still my curiosity.

The Count reflexively jerked away from me as if I'd struck him or inflicted painful stimulus of some other kind, even though I'd done nothing of the sort. His hand flew to his mouth, and just for a moment I was convinced I could glimpse panic in his eyes. The idea of him being self-conscious about his teeth of all things had not even occurred to me until now, and I considered whether I should apologize for being too forward. Even though I found his response exaggerated or altogether nonsensical, he was still the master of the house and thus entitled to setting up the rules for me to follow, however bizarre or idiosyncratic. I silently waited for him to berate me, as he had proven himself quick to lash out with his tongue or his hands when I'd done something to displease him, but he did neither this time, appearing instead to regret his response.

"I dislike having anyone touch my lips," he murmured, all the while avoiding eye contact with me. "It brings back… memories." His body language had changed a well, going from open and relaxed to defensive and closed, his shoulders squared and his upper body rotated away from me. It saddened me to see this change, but I was also curious of what had prompted it and decided to store the details of this exchange in my mental filing system of noteworthy interpersonal interactions, if only so that I could avoid making an error of this magnitude in the future.

I did not mention that he had voluntarily, even eagerly, kissed me with those same lips only a short while ago or that his negative response had stemmed from my wanting to examine his teeth rather than his lips. I sensed that it would not be in my own best interest to counter his statement or to question him in any way, so I pretended to accept his given explanation and said nothing more.

The pleasant atmosphere from before my blunder had evaporated, however, and the companionable silence had been replaced by a veritable icy gulf. I wished I'd known a way to undo the damage I had inflicted, but of course I didn't, and I had enough sense to realize my attempts to placate my host at this point would not be well-received.

"I really ought to leave," Dracula said, and although his tone was mainly noncommittal, I liked to imagine that it also contained a small fraction of regret, although I had trouble tracing the source of it. I wondered if I was expected to play along and beg him to stay, but I chose to refrain from doing so, as it would be a half-hearted repetition of our earlier exchange. And besides I already knew his answer. The Count most likely wanted to go to sleep in his own bed rather than a straw mattress that did not reflect his usual standards, and I couldn't exactly fault him for that. The creature comforts that aristocrats took for granted were as important to them as the air they breathed.

My host gathered up his nightshirt again and this time he proceeded to shimmy into it feet first in a decidedly effeminate way that struck me as almost melodramatic. The shirt was somewhat large on his thin, angular frame and hung loosely off of one shoulder, drawstrings relaxed. I could still spy the contours of his body through the white linen fabric, and the lack of detail allowed me to picture an actual woman in his place. Almost immediately after the thought had manifested, I felt guilty for having it; the Count might not be a woman, but he willingly - and some might say passionately - welcomed my touch. The pleasures of the marriage bed would obviously never become reality for someone like myself, and before I met Dracula, I had not believed any other form of physical intimacy was within my range of experience either, as streetwalkers had rejected me like everybody else.

Gathering his long hair to one side and running his fingers through it in another performative display of coquettishness which reminded me of a preening bird, the Count seemed well aware that I was intently observing him, and suddenly I wondered if he was the type to spend long hours in front of a mirror admiring his own reflection. Some elements of his behavior suggested he was that way inclined, but then it occurred to me that I had yet to see a mirror anywhere in his house. He had not provided me with one; a gesture which I, up until this point, had taken for an act of kindness, given that he had to know I was not fond of the horror that stared back at me. Now I asked myself if it was possible that the lack of mirrors served another - potentially more sinister - purpose, however, I could not imagine what that might be.

"I have business away from home tomorrow, and I shan't be back until evening," my host said, still absentmindedly fiddling with his hair. It was an explanation he had given before. "Sleep as long as you wish. Breakfast will be laid out for you in the dining room."

I nodded in assent, unsure of why he bothered to tell me this, as our interactions had already fallen into this routine anyway. I had not attempted to pry into his business or question his mostly nocturnal living, even though I found it odd; likewise regarding the lack of servants in his household.

He withdrew from me then, sliding silently into the shadows, and for a second I could have sworn the Count's form had melded with the shadows instead of just using them to conceal his presence. I heard the low, creaking sound of a rarely-used doorknob turning, accompanied by the soft patter of footsteps and a sliver of movement too quick for my weary eyes to track. At some point my oil lamp had burned out, leaving me without an artificial source of light, and I hastily wondered if my strange and wondrous perceptions could be attributed to that. I also saw the first thin streak of the rapidly approaching dawn, and had I known then what I knew now, I might have connected Dracula's hasty retreat with the oncoming sunrise, and through making that connection, saved myself a lot of grief and anguish.

Instead I lay down and closed my eyes, awash in a sea of wonders, but most importantly, deeply in lust. I believed it was love, but I would not know true love until much later.

To be continued...


	7. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Creature suspects Dracula to be less than honest about certain things and seeks to rectify that... by breaking into his locked bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains depictions of elaborate self-harm.

7.

Our strange relationship fell into an equally strange but familiar kind of rhythm after our second night as lovers; I would receive conjugal visits from him up in the tower every three or four days, during which we spoke little or not at all. Often he would ride my lap and remain in complete control of the angle and depth of penetration, but there were times when he preferred to relinquish any and all manner of control over to me and merely take what I gave him. I had noticed, however, that despite his avid claims of wanting to surrender his body and mind to unbridled carnal passions, the Count's face always retained a look of deep concentration and deliberation. Sometimes he would lie with me in bed afterwards and allow himself to be held in my arms - an event he knew I cherished - but I had yet to catch him asleep, and there was always something artificial about his exit from my presence in spite of his attempts to downplay it and attribute his need to leave to some worldly matter requiring his immediate attention.

I never objected or questioned him, since I was not in a position to negotiate on my own behalf, as my living under his roof, continually fed and clothed, was pure charity on his part, as I did not contribute anything to the household economy, but ate plenty. I supposed that giving him an outlet for his unusual carnal appetites could be considered some form of payment, although I feared what would happen to me if - or rather _when_ \- my host's interest in me waned.

Not "host", but _Master_ , I reminded myself. Whenever I needed to address him directly, I used this title, and since he had not invited a more relaxed or informal form of address, I could only presume he wished it to continue. Since my first visit to his rather extensive library, I had covertly equipped myself with stationery and writing utensils to document my experiences, just in case I would be required to give a detailed account of them sometime in the future, near or far. As I sat there on my bed, legs crossed and troglodyte brow furrowed in deep contemplation, I decided to begin by compiling a list of activities I had never observed the Count doing.

One: eating food or drinking wine. He provided me with plenty of both but never partook himself, always offering some flimsy excuse that he had already eaten during his time away from the house. Once or twice I had seen him pour himself a stiff drink which he then downed in one single gulp, most likely to fortify his nerves in preparation of a grueling task, although I had no idea what that might entail. I nonetheless considered this observation to be of great enough significance to document.

Two: moving about during daylight hours. It was late autumn and the days were getting increasingly shorter, thus allowing him more leeway to stretch the definitions of "day" and "night", but I was starting to suspect that the Count's strict adherence to a nocturnal lifestyle was not simply a preference but an imperative.

Three: sleeping or entering a minimally conscious state. I did not doubt that he, like any other creature, needed his rest, but I found it peculiar and more than just slightly hurtful that he did not trust me enough to sleep in my presence. Weeks passed, and not once had Dracula invited me into his bedroom, and whenever I tried the door - in his absence, of course - I found it locked. I was fairly sure that he did not keep his bedroom door locked to shield his most precious belongings from theft, so the only assumption left for me to make was that he was hiding something he did not wish me to discover in his quarters. 

But what was it? I once again cursed my wretched father for endowing me with these immutable urges which I could not shake, and curiosity being one of them, I could not help but obsess over the secret in the Count's room.

I cannot determine with absolute certainty when I decided to investigate the issue and knowingly go against my host's implicit wishes to keep me out of certain places, but I knew I had made up my mind when the Count left for the evening, dressed impeccably in a formal, finely tailored frock coat and top hat. He never told me what he did during these frequent outings after nightfall, but I assumed it entailed fraternizing with others of a similar social status, as he took great care of his appearance and displayed it as an obvious signifier of his wealth.

It sometimes hurt my heart to consider that my benefactor led a whole other life outside these walls that I was not privy to, but almost immediately I would regret having these intrusive thoughts, since I was not in a position to place any demands on the Count. Not now and not ever. I was his dirty, shameful secret; the beast he covertly rutted with at night but kept out of sight and most likely out of mind during time spent with his peers.

Speaking of which, I had never seen him spend himself despite lying with him so many times. I had on many occasions attempted to draw it from him, but it always ended with Dracula pushing my hand away and stating - despite obvious evidence of the contrary - that he was sated and I needn't bother.

I might not have the right to demand anything of my host, but I had the choice of investigating further to satisfy my own curiosity without alerting the Count to my plans, and thus I reasoned that what the Count did not know could not in any possible way harm him. Dracula had not shown me where he stored his keys, and when I once softly brought up the question of the numerous locked doors he laconically answered - and I hereby paraphrase - that the rooms that were inaccessible to me were rooms that I did not wish to visit in the first place. Even though his response was delivered in a perfectly good-natured tone, there was also an ill-concealed warning against further probing. I could not help but draw parallels between the locked doors and the equally unapproachable state of his mind. Even though he had initiated physical intimacy between the two of us, the same could not be said for its psychic counterpart. True, my host, whom I could not bring myself to call my _lover_ just yet, willingly listened to me and rarely interrupted when I recounted a particularly poignant memory of mistreatment, but he never forwarded any personal information about himself, and I did not feel that our relationship was secure enough for me to press on.

My time living as an outcast wanderer with nothing to rely on except my own mental faculties had equipped me with a few necessary skills, and picking locks happened to be one of them. I had constructed a pair of sturdy iron rods for this exact purpose - without the Count's knowledge, of course - and practiced my skill with them on various other locks which bore an outward resemblance to the one on the Count's door.

As it turned out, my master clearly did not harbor any suspicions toward me, as he had not taken any additional steps to making his personal living quarters inaccessible from the outside. I briefly wondered if I should be honored or insulted by the implication, as it suggested that he either thought of me as too simple or too honorable to attempt a break-in.

The process of picking the lock was easier and less time-consuming than I had expected, and moments after I heard the familiar "click" of the mechanism yielding, I was overcome with a strong sensation consisting of both exhilaration and dread - interspersed with shreds of guilt - over what I was about to do. This was undoubtedly a violation of trust, and even though I'd sworn off mankind and the rules that governed their society, I could not shed the nagging thought telling me that I was in the process of committing a monumental mistake.

I pressed down on the solid, cool metal of the door handle, and the door slid open with a low creaking noise. I found it a little strange that the Count had not thought to lubricate the hinges, as listening to a noise like this day in and day out was bound to get on one's nerves eventually, but there were odd deficits all over the house and I chalked the lack of maintenance up to yet another one of them; a byproduct, no doubt, of the Count's eccentric personality and idiosyncratic lifestyle.

The first thing that struck me when I surveyed the room's interior was the absolute lack of personalization. Though tidy and well-maintained, Dracula's bedroom practically rivaled a prison cell in its utter sterility. A magnificent fireplace sat on the far end of the chamber, but there were no glowing embers or smoke coming from it. In fact, nothing suggested the fireplace had been used at all in the recent past. This struck me as somewhat strange, as I had seen the Count seek out heat in other rooms, and the only possible explanation I could think of was that he didn't spend enough time in his bedroom to warrant the use of a fire.

I remember briefly connecting this peculiar observation with the other noted idiosyncrasies, mainly the lack of servants in his household, and wondering if I had stumbled onto something significant, but as with most other things that occurred during that time, I resorted to simply filing it away in my mind and paying it no more heed, and certainly not attaching to it enough importance to warrant action.

All in all, I was both relieved and disappointed at the lack of anything extravagant, but it unfortunately also meant I had still not received an answer to the question of what the Count guarded so fiercely from my eyes.

Despite my size, I had grown accustomed to skulking around unseen and unheard, and I caught myself subconsciously hunching and trying to make as little noise as possible, even though I was certain the Count would not be back for hours yet. I had not disrupted anything inside the room and from a rational standpoint I knew this particular transgression would most likely never be noticed, so why could I not shake the feeling of impending doom?

Dracula had left relatively recently; I did not carry a timepiece on my person to measure each passing minute, but it gave me some peace of mind to be able to survey the manor's front yard from the window. My host would need to cross it in order to re-enter his home, and the gravel would make noise even under his normally silent footsteps. Unless, of course, he chose to enter covertly through the servants' entrance, but I couldn't possibly imagine what might prompt such an unorthodox decision.

_Unless he suspects you and wants to conceal his return to catch you in the act_ , a voice inside my head piped up. It sounded surprisingly like my creator. I rejected it almost as soon as the conscious thought had formed. The Count might have had an otherworldly air about him, but he was still just a man and could not read my mind.

I was still standing still in the middle of the room, awkward and indecisive, when suddenly - to my great horror - I saw the door handle move. In literature, I had often encountered the phrase "seconds that stretched to minutes", but I had never harbored a clearer understanding of its true meaning until this moment. The Count was back early, and somehow he had managed to return unseen and unheard by me.

I very nearly panicked and briefly considered throwing my weight against the door to block his entry, but thankfully my higher brain functions managed to override this primitive and counterproductive instinct, and I dodged into the nearest space that could accommodate my huge frame: the wardrobe. It completely hid me from view, but a rather sizable crack between the doors allowed me to observe the events taking place inside the room.

The Count ambled in, his posture and movements leagues removed from his usually fluid, confident strut, and it did not take me many seconds to realize he was in pain. The tender part of my soul, which balked at suffering, no matter how well-deserved, urged me to announce my presence and offer my help, whatever that might be, but I repressed this compassionate instinct because then I would have to explain what I was doing in the Count's private room, and I had no respectable answer to such an inquiry. I had entered his locked quarters to snoop, and regardless of what had happened to my master, I knew he would not look kindly on my trespassing.

Breathing heavy and ragged, Dracula - so far thankfully unaware of my presence - hobbled over to the bed and promptly collapsed onto the mattress. I could not tell at this point if he was wounded or merely exhausted, but when he rolled over and began to struggle out of his clothes, I saw, to my horror, that his shirtfront and collar were stained red with fresh blood. I heard the distinctive sound of seams ripping and buttons popping, and I was momentarily surprised that my host would treat his expensive, custom-tailored clothes with such callous disregard, but then I was made aware of the amount of blood that had soaked through the fabric and realized these clothes were likely a lost cause either way.

A large purplish bruise, unnoticed by me until now, bloomed on the Count's left temple and I could spy four vertical gashes on his cheek, all freshly inflicted and still seeping blood. They were, however, not deep or substantial enough to be the sole source of all the blood on his clothes, so I found myself anxiously checking his disrobing self for further injuries. His interestingly pale complexion was married by a blotchy flush unevenly spread across his shoulders and neck, and his normally neatly styled hair was a thick, bushy leonine mess, but to my absolute relief there were no other visible wounds on his person. My conclusion based on these observations was that whomever my master had fought with had come out in a considerably worse state than Dracula himself, as indicated by the amount of blood present.

Panting heavily like the scent hounds angry men would sometimes sic at me, the Count - now stripped to the waist - writhed on the spot as if in great agony. His lips, whiter than usual, were pulled back tautly over his gnashing teeth to the point of exposing his gums, and I couldn't help but feel that I was witnessing a decidedly inhuman expression of distress.

I had to struggle hard to remain visibly unresponsive when my master suddenly struck himself across the face. I might have charitably attributed this action to an involuntary muscle twitch had it only occurred once, but the Count did it again and again, each time with increasing fervor and brutality. The third punch split his tightly curled upper lip and left a wet trail of mixed fluids - saliva and blood - on his teeth, which eventually trickled its way down his chin and throat in macabre, entwined rivulets of clear white and opaque red.

This act of self-harm, perverse as it was, did not extinguish the raging fire within my master's soul, and I had to watch him resort to another, even more extreme behavior namely pounding his already bruised forehead repeatedly against the stylish wooden headboard. Ashamed though I was to admit to my apathy, I stood riveted to the spot and impotently waited for the sickening sound of his skull cracking open from the force of the blows and prepared to watch the Count's brain pour out of his ears like the insides of a soft-boiled egg.

Fortunately Dracula managed to rein in the worst of his self-destructive urges, if just barely, before things could progress this far, and he began to claw at the headboard instead with a drowning man's desperation. One of his claw-like fingernails broke off at the root, but the Count did not seem to notice even when the jagged edges of his mangled fingertip left a snail's trail of blood on the smooth, dark mahogany surface.

Strength momentarily depleted, my master allowed his straining, tightly coiled body to sink into the plush velvet cushions of his bed, sweat glistening all over his person like a second layer of skin. He managed to remain still for some time before the mounting tension within him once again had to find an outlet, and this time he found it by grabbing fistfuls of his own hair and twisting it until his neck assumed a position I had previously thought possible only by a professional circus contortionist.

Dracula scratched at his throat like I had seen men do sometimes when their flow of breath was constricted by an unreasonably tight cravat, although I had once observed the same behavior - gravely enhanced, of course - in a traveling snake charmer whose trained cobra had finally delivered a killing bite after years of faithful service. The Count's fingernails, several of them jagged from scratching the headboard, left angry red lines on his skin, but - to my admitted relief - caused no further open wounds.

My master's spastic motions had ceased, and for one fleeting moment I almost dared hope he had risen above the insanity of aggravated self-harm and would permit me to relax, stashed away as I was, covertly and uncomfortably, in his closet.

The Count sat up slowly, long legs extended before him and head thrown back, providing me with a full and unobstructed view of his much-abused neck. I had expected the skin there to be completely covered in crisscrossing red lines, some dangerously close to bleeding, but to my astonishment, most of them had already faded into a barely visible pink.

Dracula, his movements slow and deliberate for the first time since his dramatic early return, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and proceeded to pull out the top drawer of his beside cabinet. I had thought he was looking for a healing ointment, or perhaps even a bottle of absinthe to chemically soothe his considerable agitation, and thus my surprise was so great that my eyes very nearly bulged out of their sockets when I realized that in his hand, the Count was now holding a goliath wooden phallus.

The shape of the object - its bulges and curves - though perfectly innocuous in a different context, was unmistakably obscene and the craftsmanship left absolutely no doubt whatsoever as to its intended purpose. The size of it, however, planted within me a primordial form of dismay, and slowly it dawned on me that I was far from finished witnessing my master's foray into elaborate self-harm.

There was nothing sensual about his mannerisms or the pinched look of dogged determination on his face, eyebrows so tightly squeezed that they almost came together above his nose, and yet I experienced a sliver of the usual desire of seeing him disrobe before me, devoid as it was of eroticism.

The Count wore no drawers underneath his trousers, and as soon as he was free of the garment, he kicked it away, not bothering with his stockings, and went on to assume a supine spread-eagled position on the bed. The monstrously oversized wooden replica of a phallus, whose dimensions indeed were a closer approximation of the equine race than anything remotely related to mankind, looked like it would be an impossible fit even with the aid of an added wetness, hence my dread shot up to new levels upon the disturbing realization that he was going to insert it dry.

My master, face still scrunched up in a look of haughty contempt, reached above his head with his left hand to steady himself with the help of the much-abused headboard, perhaps to stop his equally mistreated body from reflexively recoiling from the assault he committed upon it. With my own two eyes I then saw inch after torturous inch of the phallic replica being swallowed up by the Count's bowels. The pink rim of his arsehole, which I believed had been stretched to its limit each and every time he paused in his relentless assault, somehow always managed to accommodate and adjust, creating an illusion of Dracula's body being of a liquid rather than solid constitution.

There were no outward signs of excitement or pleasure expressed on his face, and his blatant lack of genital arousal gave me no reason to doubt my conclusion. All my master derived from this horrid self-abuse was pain, and it seemed that was all he craved too. I had sometimes observed people, typically the elderly, hitting their legs to awaken the sleeping nerves after spending too much time in a static position, and I couldn't help but wonder if I was seeing a twisted version of this phenomenon, albeit focused on another part of the body.

I briefly considered an intervention despite knowing that I could not explain my presence in my master's private bedroom, and such a violation of trust would likely have me ejected from Dracula's presence altogether. I could not, however, watch the man who had shown me such kindness and generosity engage in practices with a high likelihood of permanent damage to his body without at least nominally interfering, so I chose the coward's way out and simply averted my eyes. Apart from the occasional drawn-out, raspy intake of breath, the Count remained oddly quiet, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was concerned about attracting my attention, as he was normally quite vocal during our bedroom activities.

Granted it had occurred to me on more than one occasion that my host might not actually enjoy our conjugal relations despite always being the one to initiate them, but it had not crossed my mind until this moment that everything we did might be a part of Dracula's elaborate and apparently compulsive need to harm himself, and I was simply a tool with which to do it. I forced myself to look at him again, and as I had suspected, he had continued to push the hideous thing even further into his body during my brief reprieve from having to watch it. His face now resembled an ancient Greek tragedy mask, twisted into a near-comical representation of agony.

Back arched and legs fully extended, the Count finally seemed to realize the limitations of his physical body, albeit regretfully, and stopped his ghastly attempts at self-impalement. I approximated that at least ten inches of the phallic replica had gone up his arse, and although it might as well have been a figment of my imagination, I briefly thought I could glimpse the outline of the object through the skin of his abdomen; something which further added to my already considerable levels of repulsion. If he broke the internal structures that held his bowels in place, he would die a drawn-out, agonizing death, and there'd be nothing I could do to help him. This piece of harsh knowledge seared through my soul like lye, and it took an enormous psychic effort on my part to stay quiet.

Hand pressed against my mouth, I resorted to biting into the fleshy part of my thumb to quench the sobs that were threatening to escape. The air inside the closet seemed to drain out like water from a barrel full of holes, and I suddenly found it increasingly difficult to breathe, still undecided on what scared me the most: suffocating to death or being discovered spying on my master. The latter won out, but just barely; on top of struggling to breathe properly, I was uncomfortably hot, and had my body been able to sweat, I'm certain I would have been sweating buckets.

Dracula clawed at his throat with the hand not busy stuffing his arsehole full of giant wooden cock, and as silly as it was, I couldn't help but wonder if he somehow felt my oxygen deprivation and had a subconscious reaction to it. His own cock, meanwhile, went completely ignored, flopping against his thigh like a headless snake, and the state of it indicated heavily that the Count did this for other reasons than the commonly accepted definition of carnal pleasure.

I watched him close his legs and roll over onto his side, all the while keeping the toy in place with his dominant hand, and I knew, rationally, that this was done to facilitate a thrusting motion, but I dreaded to see it come nonetheless. The lack of an externally applied lubricant made me fear he would turn himself inside out with any attempt to dislodge the mammoth stake poking out of his rear.

After a sharp exhale that sounded like a hiss, Dracula pulled the toy out a few inches and immediately rammed it back in with a cool disregard for his body's comfort or safety. I imagined his features had once again rearranged themselves to resemble a Greek tragedy mask, but I could not tell for sure, as the Count had elected to hide his face in a pillow.

He repeated the brutal jabbing motion half a dozen times or so, but obviously found it unsatisfactory in terms of self-harm and then went on to change positions again. This time he assumed a semi-erect position squatting on the bed, one hand planted firmly against the headboard to steady himself and the other reaching around to manipulate the piece of wood lodged within his arse.

I found his new position possibly even more nerve-wracking than the previous because of the rather dramatic shift in his center of gravity. At least when stretched out on his back or side, there was no risk of my master accidentally impaling himself further than intended by not properly supporting his weight, slight though it was, but straddling the toy as if it were attached to a live man introduced that risk.

Sweat beaded heavily on Dracula's forehead, and now that I was able to once again see his tortured face properly, I noticed that his eyes too were surrounded by rivulets of red. For a brief but horrible moment lasting no more than a fraction of a second I believed that my host had, at some point, clawed out his own eyes and all that was left were a pair of empty, gaping blood-filled sockets. Then I saw a familiar and welcome glimmer of maroon and my anxiety diffused momentarily, albeit returned just as fast when I considered what he must have done to induce bleeding from his eyes.

Visibly bothered by the fluids, the Count made a half-hearted manual attempt at wiping the sticky, unwholesome mixture of sweat, blood, tears and saliva from his face, and once again I felt a wave of regret at being unable to assist him in any way. Suffering, even the purely self-inflicted kind - which I was observing now - made me feel troubled and uneasy, and while I could not sympathize with my master's actions, I still felt compassion for him, which increased to almost physically painful levels when I contemplated the mental suffering he must have endured to resort to this behavior in the first place.

Lean muscles trembling - another blatant sign of pain - the Count now struggled to maintain his squatting position, and had I not known the context of the scene before me, I would have been tempted to believe I was watching a surprisingly mannish woman in the process of childbirth.

The Count suddenly spoke a harsh, guttural sound, which I presumed was a curse word in his native language, and instead of maintaining the squat, he allowed his overstrained body to fall forward into a crawling position. Even without a hand to hold it in place, the phallic object was too deeply burrowed in his arse to slide out on its own. Sensing that a collapse was imminent, my master spent a good four or five minutes simply resting his forehead against his forearms, during which he moved little or not at all. When he finally lifted his head, his movements were lethargic and lacked all of his usual effortless energy. Dexterity all but gone, he fumbled around for the toy; whether to remove it or apply stimulation I could not tell until he flopped bonelessly onto his back and I heard a wet, squelching sound similar to the noise of a boot stuck in several inches of mud.

Even in the soft, warm light of the kerosene lamp, the Count's face looked worrisomely gaunt, and his complexion, pallor further enhanced by the layer of glistening perspiration, resembled that of a dead man more than a live one. The four parallel cuts on his cheek together with the blood smeared across his chin and lips formed an almost unearthly contrast to the whiteness of his skin.

I did not want to watch him commit further atrocities against his own person, and yet I was unable to look away when he brought the toy, now speckled with blood, to his mouth and avidly began to lick it clean. I felt my own supper rise then and threaten to make its way back up my throat. Nothing could have prepared me for this level of deviancy, and seeing the desperation with which my master lapped up his own tainted bodily fluids mixed with an implicit casualness heavily suggested that he had performed this act numerous times in the past and thought little of it.

When there was no more blood for him to lick off, Dracula's interest in the toy waned and he allowed it to drop to the floor and out of my sight. Appearing satiated for the moment, he stretched his lanky body like a newly awakened feline and used an arm to cover his eyes, as if even the gentle light from the kerosene lamp hurt his eyes.

He stayed like that for a while, appearing unresponsive and barely moving any part of his body, but I was not naïve enough to believe he was asleep or that it would be safe for me to attempt an escape from his quarters unnoticed. The sweat covering his skin had begun to dry, and I wondered if the Count would freeze given that no fire had been lit in the hearth for quite some time.

My master suddenly emitted a pain-filled moan, and I suspected that the concentrated euphoria from his self-harm session had started to dissipate and he was now experiencing its consequences full force. Dracula gingerly touched the area between his thighs and gave a weary sigh when his fingertips unsurprisingly came back coated in blood. This time he did not attempt to lick them clean or commit any other obscene act, and merely shrank back against the plush pillows and delicately woven bedcovers, which he had most certainly soiled for good with his acts of debauchery.

Now sporting two separate bruises on his head - one on his temple, which had been inflicted upon him by someone else, and another one on his forehead which was self-inflicted - the Count felt them with the pads of his fingertips and appeared quite shocked at the level of swelling present. Muttering something inaudible, he rolled over, motions languid and uncoordinated, and reached in underneath his bed. I could not see what he was holding in his hand, but I was able to connect the dots when I watched him unscrew the lid of a small glass vial and down the contents in one deep swig. I took it to be alcohol at first, but then a strong, musky scent, almost corrosive in its intensity, reached my nostrils, and it quickly dawned on me that my master had consumed large quantities of laudanum.

Terror filled my soul like the strong chemical scent filled my nostrils. Laudanum was a substance that required careful attention to dosage lest it become toxic, and instead of a few drops, Dracula had swallowed an entire mouthful. Was I going to have to watch my master die? I recounted the options available to me in this moment, and I realized I had the choice to reveal my presence and attempt to force an emetic down my intoxicated master's throat with the hope that it was not too late to save his life. Dracula might still fight me at this point, and it would most certainly jeopardize my future in his house, but at least he would live.

I threw open the closet doors and rushed toward the bed. The Count, lying on his stomach with one arm dangling limply over the edge, gave no response, and my dread doubled in an instant.

"Master?" I said, my voice naught but a hoarse whisper. My instincts were telling me to bolt, to leave this house and this man and never look back, but my heart yearned for the opposite, and I knew that if I walked away now and later found out the Count died as a result of my failure to take action, my own conscience would never allow me any peace of mind.

I touched his exposed back, too used to the clamminess of his skin by then to think much of it, and gently shook his prone form. "Master?" I repeated, slightly louder this time.

Panic was beginning to set in, and the lack of an audible response prompted me to look for other signs of life. Was the Count breathing? I anxiously felt for a rising and falling motion of his ribcage, and detecting none, I held my hand in front of his nose, hoping to catch an expulsion of air. I thought I felt _something_ ; too faint and inconsequential to be a proper exhale, but enough to restore in me a sliver of hope. I turned his head sideways, trying to ignore the macabre war-paint of partially dried blood, saliva and tears that crisscrossed his features, and held his sweat-soaked, tangled locks of hair aside so that I could properly see his face.

A weak groan escaped his lips, and I noted the faintest of flutters behind his swollen eyelids. I contemplated forcing my fingers down his throat to induce vomiting but changed my mind in the last possible moment. Considering the time that had lapsed between the Count's intake of the laudanum and now, practically all of the harmful substance had already been absorbed by his system and thus an oral emetic administered at this time would be of little to no consequence.

Kneeling next to the bed by my unconscious master, I came to the somewhat shameful realization that I was given an excellent opportunity to exit the rooms without the Count ever knowing of my trespasses. I touched his face one final time and then quietly withdrew. The soft, almost inaudible click produced by the door's locking mechanism sounded like the drop of an anvil to my anxious ears, and I briefly wondered if there was a chance my master would remember he left the door unlocked.

Not until I was safely back in my tower bedroom, seated on the bed where the Count and I had coupled over a dozen times, did I allow my bottled-up emotions to get the better of me and promptly found myself shaking and sobbing almost uncontrollably. Finally I understood why my oh-so-hospitable master kept the door to his private chamber diligently locked at all times; it was not to safeguard anything hidden inside the room itself, but rather to conceal - or perhaps to contain - an undesirable aspect of his own psyche. I deeply regretted probing into the matter and desperately wished I could purge myself of the knowledge I had acquired tonight, but I was unable to do so, just as my odious creator had been unable to undo my creation.

I could not weep, and yet I cried.

To be continued...


	8. The morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to forget what he saw, the Creature retreats into himself, but he knows he cannot postpone a confrontation forever...

8.

I did not expect to see the Count for quite some time, perhaps never again as I'd received no guarantees he'd even survived the laudanum overdose, so my shock and astonishment must have been palpably written on my face when the man himself strode confidently into the library less than twenty-four hours after his obstinate attempts to inflict horrific and potentially irreparable damage to his body. I had dealt with the aftermath of my traumatic observations by burying myself in my studies of German vocabulary and pronunciation, determined to absorb all I could if I was nearing the end of my stay here.

Due to the nature of what I had witnessed and the profound impact it had on me, I was unsure of how to act in his presence without giving myself away. I had anticipated that our next interaction would be awkward at best given that the Count had caused himself injuries that were highly visible and would take time to heal if they ever even healed fully. Something I had not anticipated was coming face to face with a man whose only visible injury was a small fading bruise on his forehead, far removed from the ugly purple mass of clotted blood he had inflicted on himself before my eyes.

Not only were the other marks gone from his face, but his skin looked positively lush and radiant; a far cry indeed from the ghastly pallor he'd sported last time I saw him. He must have noticed my staring at him with my mouth agape, because he touched the bruise on his forehead, clearly mistaking it for the source of my surprise.

"I walked into a door last night," he said with a small shrug. "How clumsy of me."

I inclined my head, pretending to accept the explanation without further ado. His bruise glowed in hues of yellow and green, and I knew from experience that bruises did not assume those hues until they were a minimum of three days old. I asked myself if it was possible that I had misjudged the severity of the Count's self-inflicted injuries; the poor lighting and my own sometimes treacherous imagination might have caused me to make both a qualitative and a quantitative exaggeration.

The startling contrast between his behavior then and what he was giving me now added to the conundrum, but I reminded myself not to be too quick to discount my own experiences. My master had returned home ahead of schedule and covered in blood; all of which was not his own. The use of simple deductive logic told me that only two possibilities could have led up to the events I'd witnessed: either the Count was attacked by someone, or he had initiated an attack of his own. It frightened me to ponder either of those alternatives, especially considering that last night might not have been an isolated incident. I was loath to think that I might experience a stab of worry every time my master left the house after this and immediately felt guilty for having such possessive thoughts.

"You're more quiet than usual," the Count remarked, ever the observant host. "Is something bothering you, perhaps?" He glided towards me then, his navy blue silk shirt producing a soft rustle when he moved. His gait bore none of the signs of pain or injury, and given what I had seen him do to his lower body he ought not walk painlessly for at least a week ahead.

I shook my head, suddenly wishing he would leave. The worst thing that could happen right now was if the Count started to probe and outright rejected my excuses, but I also recognized that being openly avoidant and unwelcoming of him would only stoke his curiosity, which in all aspects rivaled my own.

"Oh," he cooed, cocking his head when he noticed my stack of books. "Being studious, I see. Are you making any headway with German?"

"Yes, I…" The dryness of my throat forced me to swallow before I could get any more words out. "It is a complex language. I have to learn the foundations before I proceed to speaking."

"Ahh. You're a perfectionist," Dracula commented with sly snicker. He came up behind me and snaked his long, thin, silk-clad arms around my shoulders in a surprising display of public affection. My heart lurched, and he must have felt it through my clothes, because it prompted another chuckle from him, and next I felt his cold fingers slip inside my shirt and settle on my breast right on top of my heart.

"All work and no play…" my master said with a small but melodramatic sigh, and I could feel his lips and strangely also the columns of his teeth against my neck. "…is good for neither body nor spirit. I will visit you tonight, my friend. Be ready for me."

A nervous shudder went through my body, and I don't know to this day if it was more due to anxiety or excitement at the prospect of physical intimacy. The Count had never before given me any prior notification of his intended visits, and I wondered what had prompted him to do so this time. Against my will, my mind fed me memories of my master's heinous acts of self-defilement, and despite the fact that I was still strongly attracted to him and wanted our relations to continue, I could not deny that the idea of entering his raw, bleeding flesh so soon after his abuse of himself also carried with it a certain degree of trepidation. Would my prick be stained with blood when I pulled it out, and would - God forbid - Dracula want to lap it up like he had done with the phallic wooden toy?

I readily acknowledged this man as my master, and I would bow down to him and honor his wishes in most worldly matters, but one thing I feared I would not be able to stomach was to be a willing accomplice in his quest for self-harm, particularly if there was also an erotic component involved which depended on my participation. Or worse, my _performance_. The very thought nauseated me.

"I thought I would let you know…" the Count purred, apparently still under the impression that my visibly prominent agitation was solely due to sexual arousal. His hands slid lower, ghosting over my groin, and my body, ever responsive, expectantly twitched. My master gave a soft snort, sounding pleased with himself as if making me squirm was some great accomplishment. "…and give you something to look forward to."

"You needn't concern yourself with my needs, master," I said. "If you've hurt yourself, you should be resting."

"It's nothing. Just a bump and a scratch. I don't mind doting on you from time to time." I didn't actually see him smile, but as strange as it might sound, I _heard_ it through his voice and choice of words. "My hard-working, clever beast."

A kiss was pressed to the nape of my neck, and it suddenly occurred to me how poorly his demonstrations of affection matched the words he used to refer to me. As always, I said nothing and pretended the words didn't faze me. Even if I found aspects of the Count's behavior objectionable, I would have to tolerate it lest I be forced to leave his house and become a homeless wandering wretch once more; an option which held very little appeal.

"Let's see what you have absorbed of the language so far," Dracula said, hands now moving rhythmically back and forth across the considerable breadth of my shoulders. "Wer is dein Meister?" he whispered in my ear, and even though it was technically phrased as a question, it was very clear to me that he would only accept one correct answer.

"Vous êtes," I replied, not yet confident enough to attempt an answer in German, as it would have required the use of the royal rather than personal 'you'. "Monsieur le Comte."

"Très bon."

To be continued...


	9. Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Creature learns that his new master will not look kindly upon failure.

9.

In preparation for our next encounter I - in retrospect perhaps unwisely - raided the Count's liquor cabinet in search for something to soothe my frayed nerves. I rarely drank anything stronger than wine these days, and always in moderate amounts, but I found old habits hard to shake in times of stress, and sexual congress with my master in his current state, knowing what I knew, was a stress-inducing thought. Anxious but also angry with myself for feeling this way, I went for the spirit with the highest alcohol content: the colorless, unscented and unflavored Eastern-European beverage known as vodka.

As expected, the liquor burned my throat and tongue, but it lacked the strong medicinal scent and taste of absinthe. I did not want Dracula to smell the alcohol on my breath, and for this purpose an unscented neutral liquid was the wisest choice. I knew my own digestion to be robust but slow, and therefore I would have to wait quite some time for the telltale lightheadedness of intoxication to set in. The tremor in my hands was barely noticeable when I replaced the bottle and closed the cabinet.

Even though my feet felt leaden heavy when I ascended the stairs up to my tower room, I was even more weighed down by my somber thoughts. Not having eaten a proper meal since yesterday, I was starting to experience the effects of the vodka more severely than I had anticipated, and rather than help me relax, the alcohol was making me feel nauseated. What I craved now most of all was a few hours of uninterrupted, healing sleep, but I knew perfectly well that such was not within my reach since the Count intended to visit me - presumably - before daybreak.

With the foul taste of vodka still present in the back of my mouth, I began to regret my decision to consume alcohol. It had done virtually nothing to calm me down and now I was saddled with the uncomfortable task of possibly having to defend my inebriation to my master. Dracula had not outright forbidden me from accessing his liquor cabinet, but I had bypassed politeness by helping myself without his permission.

I was still mentally occupied by disheartening thoughts when I entered my room, but they were gone in a flash when I realized I was not alone; the Count was sitting on my bed, wearing a lime green satin robe and not much else and clearly expecting my return. He smiled at me radiantly, appearing to find enjoyment - or dare I say pleasure? - in my surprise.

My journal where I had chronicled last night's disturbing events in detail lay open on my bedside table, and the realization that the Count might have read it caused a surge of additional dread. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, but I also figured that my wily master knew more than well how to cover his tracks.

Most of all I would have liked to ask him to leave me be and let me sleep, but of course I could not make such a request lest it sound like a rejection, and our arrangement left me unable to deny my master anything. I glanced hesitantly at him as he sat there on the edge of my bed and caught myself thinking that underneath the loose-fitting robe, if illuminated correctly, his narrow frame with its immaculate porcelain skin could almost pass for a woman's. The illusion promptly dissipated above the neck, because even when surrounded by shining, round locks of hair parted in a distinctive androgynous manner, his face was unmistakably a man's.

"Master," I managed to say even though I nearly tripped over the vocals. What followed sounded to me more like the croaks of a frog than spoken French, and I was both relieved and simultaneously disheartened when the Count understood me perfectly. "I did not expect to find you here…at this time."

"I thought I might surprise you," Dracula replied sweetly. He gazed up at me from underneath his lashes in that faux coquettish manner of his, which was becoming increasingly jarring. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"…of course I am, Master," I said instinctively. The buzz of the alcohol was really starting to set in now, and I didn't know which I feared more: sexual intercourse or a conversation where I was supposed to hold my end.

Fortunately he saved me from said humiliation by beckoning me closer with a casual wag of his finger, but the alternative was only preferable by a margin. When I stood before him like a statue, he unceremoniously went on to unbutton my breaches and began to pump my member with a look on his face that simultaneously communicated both indifference and deep focus.

What followed was a surprise to him and me both. I had feared that my mouth or perhaps my stomach would betray my true feelings regarding these events, but I had not counted on my own prick betraying me by not hardening despite my master's ardent efforts to make it happen. I watched his mounting frustration and felt it too; his bony, cold fingers pulling and squeezing my member to the point of pain, and unlike the Count himself I did not find pleasure in such a sensation.

I managed to get myself up to half-mast at one point, but despite wholehearted and sincere attempts I could not maintain a strong enough erection to penetrate him. Everything he did was counterproductive at this point anyway and had the opposite of the desired effect on my body. Two bright spots of red blazed on Dracula's cheeks, growing in size and increasing in intensity alongside his dissatisfaction with me. The lines of his face were drawn hard like wires, his anger simultaneously both aging him and giving him vitality.

"Why is this happening now?" he snapped interrogatively, not simply requesting but _demanding_ an explanation. His hand moved in a monotonous rhythmic tapping motion against his knee, betraying the agitation he tried to mask as anger. "What is wrong with you?"

"I cannot say, Master," I replied. Not the whole truth, but not a complete lie, either.

"Hogwash!" the Count snarled, upper lip curled in a grimace that bared his perfectly smooth row of sharp white teeth. "I cannot believe you would do this to me." The pitch of his voice went up at least two octaves and sounded alarmingly different from the his usual deep baritone, signaling that he very much regarded my inability to perform as a personal slight.

"I've given you everything, haven't I? I've fed you, clothed you and given you access to your precious books, and this is how you repay my generosity? I am asking you to do one thing. _One thing_ , and you cannot even meet that simple requirement. You are worthless!"

He glared at me from underneath his eyebrows, and the combined effect of his gaze and his hurtful words amplified the level of contempt which radiated from him towards me. My first line of defense against hostility and danger was always to retreat, but because such was not an option in my master's house, I was forced to find another method of coping with his rage and accusations. Even though my whole being was screaming at me to counter Dracula's aggression with more of the same, I bit back the caustic reply already on the tip of my tongue and wrestled my wounded ego into submission.

"I did not do this to spite you, Master," I said in a low voice, eye cast down, still holding on to the naïve hope of somehow being able to de-escalate the situation. "If you are open to the idea, you might perhaps… show me how to please you in some other way. With my hands or with my mouth--"

"If I wished that, I would have told you about it long ago," Dracula interrupted, sounding more querulous than ever. The tendons on his neck stood out like cords, highlighted to an almost eerie degree by his lack of subcutaneous fat.

"Is it because I am not a woman?" The Count smiled then, a terrible ghoulish grin, all teeth and completely devoid of mirth. "It is, is it not?" He chuckled, his voice suddenly back to its usual low and steady timbre. "I should have known. Would you have me wear a frock and paint my face like the whores that fled screaming at the mere sight of you? Would that make your prick stand, hmm?"

I had never disclosed the details of this particular experience to my master, and his cruel use of it to hurt and belittle me meant he must indeed have gone through my journal. For the first time that night anger was the prevailing emotion inside my heart, and I felt the sudden impulse to slap the spiteful, voluptuous mouth that had uttered those hurtful words and make the Count eat them. I quenched this violent impulse almost as soon as I became consciously aware of it, but the tightening of my fists did not go unnoticed by Dracula, who suddenly produced a vocalization somewhere on the scale between a laugh and a bark.

"Go on, hit me!" he goaded, eyes maniacally gleaming. "I know you want to. If you cannot fuck me, then why not hit me instead?"

"No, Master," I said calmly, rotating my upper body away from him. The urge to strike my master had passed, but the desire to simply flee the scene was stronger than ever, and only the fact that I had nowhere to seek shelter prevented me from attempting it.

"You pathetic wretch!" Dracula snarled, sprinkling the side of my face and neck with tiny, cool drops of spittle. His pupils exploded into pits of black so deep and abysmal that the fires of hell might have been burning behind them.

"You are afraid of me, are you not?" he said tauntingly, and I belatedly realized I was probably only going to spur on his reckless anger by visibly not reacting. "I knew it. You spineless, gutless coward. You don't want _me_ to be your woman, because you would rather I bugger you instead." He slapped my chest hard, perhaps to make sure he had my complete and undivided attention, then screamed. "Don't you?!"

"Would that make you happy, Master?" I asked frankly. "Because our current arrangement doesn't appear to make you happy at all."

"Don't tell me what I want, you simple-minded beast," Dracula retorted with a disproportionate amount of venom, strongly hinting that I had managed to brush against a particularly sore spot in his psyche. I did not see this as a victory on my part nor did I take any enjoyment in it, as this was not my nature, but also because no good could come from challenging my master, who held all the power over my future in his hand.

"You get out of here!" my master hissed and proceeded to deliver a powerful kick to my hip, which - since he caught me unawares - would have knocked me down from the bed had I not been able to absorb it with my bulk. "Get out of my sight!"

If I'd had access to the full range of my thinking faculties at the time, I probably would have taken the opportunity to quietly slip out with the hope of somehow being able to placate the Count next time I saw him. Alas, my wounded ego would not allow it and before I could rein myself in, the words had already slipped out of my mouth.

"This is my room, Master. Perhaps _you_ should leave."

Even though the Count had been tethering on the brink of uncontrolled rage for quite some time now, I was still woefully unprepared for the blows that began to rain over me like vicious fist-sized hailstones. I raised my arm to shield my face and mainly my eyes from his lashing claws, and I had no intent of retaliating with an attack of my own until one of the Count's fingernails poked me in the eye, triggering a pain so immediate and intense that I saw no other option except to shove him away from myself. I had, however, miscalculated the force needed to move a man of his size and belatedly realized I had once again gravely underestimated my own strength when I watched my master tumble over the edge of the bed in a flurry of limbs. Even though he was outside my field of vision, I heard the nauseating crack of his skull colliding with something hard, and for a few horrifying seconds of silence, I was entirely convinced that I had killed the man.

I was simultaneously both relieved and terrified when my master's face reappeared in my line of sight and I saw that the only damage he had sustained was a bloody nose. Our eyes met across the bed, and since the Count's rage was far from spent, I prepared myself for another imminent assault on my person.

"So, you would strike me? Your master?" Dracula sneered, touching the blood on his lips with an expression that came together in a queer mixture of revulsion and hunger.

"For that I apologize," I said, not bothering to challenge him on his definition of a strike. "But I could not let you wound me."

He stood up on his feet then, not quite towering over myself, who was still seated, even though this was clearly his intention.

"Get out of my house!" he said with a low growling voice containing just the barest hint of a tremble. "NOW! Get out _now_ , you filthy, useless, witless creature! Go sleep in the outhouse with the dogs where you belong!" He made a jabbing motion at the door with his finger, communicating in no uncertain terms that I was to be expelled from the room I had come to consider my own. I could have contested this, it being winter with near-freezing temperatures outside, but I had to admit that the idea of spending the night alone out in the cold with no protection from the merciless elements was still the preferable option to remaining in the house with the Count… or the hateful, baleful creature he had morphed into.

I inclined my head in an affirmative nod and hurriedly began to redress myself. I was forced to remain seated in order to tie my bootlaces; something that required both dexterity and attention and thus prevented me from taking defensive action against my enraged master. I was correct in assuming that Dracula's fury was nowhere close to abating, and only my preternaturally sharp reflexes allowed me to dodge the object hurled at me by the Count's hand. It - a glass perfume vial - shattered into a million pieces upon impact with the stone wall and sprayed me with a concentrated mist of magnolia-scented droplets. It was one of the Count's own fragrances; expensive, certainly, but not irreplaceable. However, the fact that he would wreck his own possessions just to harm me signaled a chaotic and irrational disposition which, if provoked badly enough, could prove dangerous for both himself and me.

The more distance I could place between us the better. And quickly.

As soon as I stood up straight, my master began to shove at me with the palms of his hands, all the while screeching obscenities and the most degrading of insults. I pretended not to hear them and refrained from retaliation, just making sure to stay on my feet, as I did not trust him to cease his attacks in case he somehow managed to topple me.

Even though he had been the one to order me out, I saw Dracula's rage doubling or perhaps even tripling in magnitude when I reached for my traveler's cloak and my departure became imminent in his mind.

"So you are abandoning me now, scurrying off like a dog with its tail between its legs?" he spat, eyes positively blazing. The sash of his robe had come undone at some point during our scuffle and bared one of his shoulders, which looked to me like a piece of knobby bone with sinews and dramatically white skin drawn tightly across it. His aggressive, patchy flush had not spread past his clavicles, creating a stark, eye-catching contrast between deathly pallor and lurid passion.

"You told me to go, Count," I replied with as much steadiness as I could currently muster. "So I am going. I will leave tonight if that is what you wish, but I will not fight you. Are we understood?"

The Count laughed then; a glassy, mocking sound which reminded me of the delicate yet sharp rustling of a wind chime hit by a light spring breeze. "Go on, then. Leave," he urged me. "You are no prisoner here."

I fastened my cloak under his watchful gaze, and then made the careless mistake of turning my back on him to exit through the doorway. From the corner of my eye I saw my master reach for a candlestick and lift it above his head to bludgeon me with. Due to the fact that I saw it coming, I was somewhat able to parry what would have otherwise been a devastating blow by rotating my body and allowing my shoulder to connect with the weapon instead of my head, the latter undoubtedly being his target.

The brawl, however, was far from over. The Count took a second swing at me, his movements more savage but less precise, and using my superior stature, I reached around him, grabbed his wrist, and attempted to wrench the heavy brass object from his grasp, with both of us panting like ravenous dogs. To my surprise, the Count fought me furiously on this even though he must have realized there was no conceivable way he could ever defeat me in a grappling contest. He thrashed in my arms like a trapped fox and screeched like one as well, fingers spasmodically wound around the metal handle of the candlestick. Puzzled by the behavior but also determined to disarm him, I used my body to trap him between the wall and myself, pinning his wrist against the cold, hard, uneven surface of century-old brick and mortar. He tried to thrust his knee into my groin then, desperation reaching critical levels, and I responded by lifting him off the ground to completely deprive him of any leverage for further kicks.

With the Count's feet dangling helplessly at least six inches above the floor, our eyes finally met, and I could conclude that his fighting spirit was far from extinguished. I squeezed his wrist with added pressure, no longer caring if I hurt him or inflicted lasting damage, and only when the bones in his forearm could be heard grinding against each other did his grip finally relent. The candlestick fell from his hand and landed on the floor with a dull thud, as if to remind us both of our combined losses.

My master followed suit as soon as I released him and collapsed onto his knees like a sack of wet flour. He clutched his throat even though I had not grabbed him there, and I half-expected him to throw out false accusations of strangulation, but to my surprise he said nothing. Not willing to make the same mistake twice, I began to silently back away from him, very much aware that his sudden placid exterior might just be an act to lull me into a false sense of security so that he could attempt another stealthy attack from behind.

The Count hardly moved at all apart from tracking me with his eyes, but I could have sworn I saw the ghost of a smile dancing about his voluptuous ruby lips, made even more pronounced by the coating of rapidly congealing blood. I did not dare turn my back on him completely until the door to the tower had shut, after which I fled down the stairs on trembling legs and ran out into the coldness of the winter night, on my own once more.

A dull ache endured in the shoulder where the Count had struck me, but it was nothing compared to the throbbing ache of loneliness and regret festering in my heart.

To be continued... 


	10. Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Creature has fled Dracula's residence, but the Count is not ready to let him go just yet...

10.

I spent the first night of my new existence as a homeless wanderer without shelter of any kind, and the whipping of the icy wind against my face served as a cruel reminder of the life I had been forced to forsake. At daybreak the first rays of sunlight on my skin felt like the feathery touches of a benevolent deity, and I had to confess I hadn't even realized how profoundly my mostly nocturnal lifestyle had affected me until now. I missed the creature comforts and the safety of a roof over my head as well as not having to worry about finding enough food to sustain me throughout the day, and as strange as it might seem I missed my master more than anything else. Despite his admittedly poor treatment of me toward the end of our acquaintance, he alone had approached me like a sapient being and taken an interest in getting to know who I was beneath my hideous exterior.

At dusk I broke into an unguarded chicken coop and made quick work of gathering all the freshly-laid eggs with the hope of somehow being able to cook them prior to consumption. I also briefly considered snatching one of the adult hens, thinking my crime might be attributed to a raiding fox but ultimately decided against it as I feared it would upset the remaining birds too badly and attract unwanted attention to my deed.

Some of the eggs broke in my huge ungainly hands and splashed their sticky contents all over my front, causing me to lament of the state of my clothes more than the loss of a nutritious food source. Eating the eggs raw was certainly always an option, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time I'd resorted to such, but I feared my palate - now conditioned to the flavors and texture of cooked foods with appropriate seasoning - would balk at the taste of raw egg.

I fashioned for myself a type of frying pan out of some scrap metal, for once thanking my creator for endowing me with the strength to bend iron with my bare hands. Starting a fire from scratch was one of the first and most important skills I had taught myself after becoming aware of my existence, and I was relieved to discover that I had not lost this particular skill set during my luxurious living with the Count.

The eggs, though utterly bland taste-wise, were sufficient to satisfy my ravenous hunger for the time being, and I could see myself subsisting on a diet consisting mainly of chicken eggs, even though I found the thought of resorting to habitual theft to feed myself off-putting and miserable.

Not only miserable, but…

I sought for the perfect word, wishing I'd had a pen and a piece of paper to write down my thoughts.

Then it suddenly floated into my mind when I had already given up on pondering over it, as words had a tendency to do. The word I sought to describe my situation was 'unworthy'.

I cursed the Count for habituating me to this comfortable lifestyle free from hardship only to cruelly yank it away from me at his leisure, but at the same time I felt a burgeoning resentment towards my own body for refusing to comply with the Count's demands. I knew from a rational standpoint that I had next to no conscious control over my libido or whom I fancied in a romantic way, and yet I couldn't help but ask myself if I could have somehow done more to avoid the disaster that had come about and ultimately cost me my position in Dracula's household.

I had - in his opinion, anyway - humiliated the Count by being unable to perform for him, and instead of being placated by my phlegmatic temper, my lack of visible affect had spurred on my master's uncontrolled rage and eventually driven him to launch a full-fledged assault on my person.

"It is no one's fault but your own," my creator's spiteful voice spoke inside my head. "You are a fool to think anyone could stand the sight of your hideous countenance day in and day out without going mad themselves. I certainly couldn't, and I was your _father_."

I was suddenly overcome with a violent feeling of nausea, and the final mouthful of my egg supper grew in my mouth and forced me to spit it out, lest I regurgitate the full contents of my stomach.

This was my life now, and I might as well get used to it all over again. There was no relief for me and certainly no escape, unless a few blissful hours of drunken stupor would count, and that was assuming I could even get my hands on alcohol.

Huddling close to my fire, my ears suddenly picked up on the rapidly approaching sound of clopping hooves, and my body instantly tensed like a coiled spring, readying itself for a confrontation on the off chance that the rider was there to confront me. I pulled the hood of my cloak tighter around my face to conceal as much of it as possible and did my best to make my gargantuan frame seem smaller and less conspicuous. To the extent of my knowledge, I was not trespassing on anyone's land, and I had deliberately chosen a campsite miles away from any human settlements. It was in the middle of the night, hours away from dawn, and I could not fathom why anybody would take the risk of riding out in darkness unless they had specifically come for me.

Accepting that a confrontation was likely inevitable at this point, I straightened my back and gripped the sturdy iron rod I had acquired earlier in the day alongside the scrap metal for my pan. It was the only weapon I had, but wielded by my hands it was a formidable one.

I recognized the Count's horse before spotting the man himself; Dracula's favorite steed was a tall, solid black Arabian purebred appropriately named Beelzebub, and even though horses were generally frightened of me and tended to strain and rear in my presence, this particular one - a 7-year-old gelding - was unusually tolerant of me and had occasionally allowed me to approach him to feed him an apple or pet his damp, velvety muzzle.

There was no apparent animosity in the way my master rode, but I had intimate firsthand experience of the Count's unpredictable temperament, so I held on to my rod, ever watchful despite knowing that it would be a useless defensive weapon against a firearm. I had been shot with a musket before, and some of those bullets were still lodged deep within my body, but apart from the entry wounds sometimes itching when the weather was hot and humid, the embedded bullets did nothing to impede my functioning. I had also never seen the Count carry or handle a firearm of any kind, although I realized I could not rely on such a dubious supposition in the face of the very real danger of being shot.

Dracula dismounted in a liquid motion of easy grace and whispered something in one of Beelzebub's ears which seemed to soothe the horse. I couldn't decide which puzzled me more; that the Count had gone to such lengths to search for me after our less-than-amicable parting or the fact that he had managed to find me in the first place. Briefly I considered the possibility that he had been following me at a distance all along, but discarded it as an improbable theory almost as quickly. If he wanted something from me, to exact vengeance, why allow me to get this far, when all it did was inconvenience the man?

I did not stand up when he approached me; being one-and-a-half feet taller than the Count, I was able to look him in the eye whilst seated almost without tilting my head. He must have taken note of me gripping the metal rod and deduced that I was wary of him, because he held out his hands in a disarming gesture to show that he indeed did not carry a weapon.

"May I take a seat?" he asked, nodding at the fire I had going. His tone was neutral, just like his overall stance.

"You may," I replied, allowing some of the tension to leave my body now that I knew that my former master was not overtly hostile toward me. Beelzebub whinnied a small distance away and stomped his front hooves against the ground in what appeared to be impatience. The Count spoke a single word in his native language and both the movement and the noise immediately ceased. I knew that even experienced horse-trainers had difficulty establishing that kind of effortless dominance over an animal, and watching the Count do it with such casual - nay, _cavalier_ \- ease made me wonder what other hidden talents he was hiding behind his carefully crafted and guarded façade.

I realized then that while I had carnal knowledge of the man, I didn't truly know him at all on any other level.

"You should watch your horse," I said, emboldened by the fact that I was no longer a guest of his and thus able to address him on neutral ground, as an equal. "There are wolves in these parts. He could sense them and bolt."

"Wolves do not concern me," Dracula answered plainly. "Nor you, I'd expect."

I ignored the playful barb and watched silently as my former master took a seat on the rocky ground beside me, appearing strangely unbothered by the cold even though all he wore as far as outdoor clothing was concerned was a simple frockcoat intended for moderately cool autumn or spring weather. I spent a few moments covertly studying the Count's handsome profile, his angular aristocratic features highlighted by the double illumination of fire and moonlight. I knew from reading my creator's journal that Frankenstein had attempted to craft a face that fit his definition of handsome out of dead flesh only to realize he'd failed horribly when I came to life and began to move.

"Are you hungry?" the Count asked then, and I could see his eyes slipping from my face down to the multitude of broken eggshells on the ground by my feet.

"I have acquired adequate sustenance for myself," I replied.

"So I see. And how about tomorrow, my friend?"

"I will think of something else," I said with a hint of defensiveness to my response. I could provide for myself adequately; how could I have otherwise survived prior to the Count's entry into my life? I simply needed to lower my expectations and accept a less than comfortable standard of living, but I would get by.

"Of course," Dracula said with a quiet chuckle. "You'd need to be resourceful to survive for as long as you have without anyone to aid you."

"Why are you here?" I asked bluntly, deciding I did not have to tolerate his indirect, nebulous and vaguely sarcastic style of communication since he was no longer my master.

Dracula was momentarily taken aback by what he undoubtedly perceived as brusqueness in me, and for a second of two I believed I saw his mind reconfiguring itself to formulate a response that deviated to a considerable extent from his original script.

"I came to apologize," he said, now chewing nervously on his bottom lip with those lustrous porcelain teeth of his. I detected no immediate deception in the statement, although the Count's previous behavior had made me cautious of anything he expressed. "For last night. I had no right to put you through all that, and I am very sorry."

"You are?" The question slipped out of my mouth before I could rein it in, and the look of surprise on my face must have been legendary.

"Yes. I…" The Count averted his eyes, and his mannerisms now showed none of the melodramatic playfulness I had come to expect from him, leading me to believe that his embarrassment was sincere. I stayed silent, patiently waiting for him to speak up again and disclose what he clearly wanted me to know. "I was not myself… last night," he then said. "In fact, I was going through a bit of a crisis, and I did you wrong by taking it out on you. I shouldn't have, and I wish I could take it back."

To hear this unexpected humility from a man otherwise so defined by boundless arrogance resonated very strongly with me for some reason, and I felt myself getting emotional. "I forgive you, Count," I said almost instantly, relieved I was able to speak the words without a tremble in my voice.

"So all that… it's in the past?" The Count sounded eager but also hesitant, as if he couldn't believe he had managed to pull forgiveness out of me with so little effort.

"Yes," I said. "I believe we should let bygones be bygones."

"Never have truer words been spoken!" Dracula exclaimed loudly enough to frighten his own horse which must have believed its master was either angry or in danger. Beelzebub reared in response, eyes bulging, but a simple gesture with one arm and a snap of the fingers brought the Arabian back to relative ease, and throughout all this racket, the Count's eyes remained fixed on me.

"I am grateful that you came," I said, allowing myself to relax somewhat more in my former master's presence now that he had expressed regret over his actions. "It would have been very sad to part as enemies."

"To part?" He laughed as if I had told him everything in jest. "You are coming back home with me, naturally. Why else do you think I bothered to come all the way here?"

One could perhaps say that my entire relationship with the Count had been defined by conflicting emotions, some of which I had repressed, but all of that came to a head in this very moment when I learned that he wished me to return to the manor with him.

My first instinctive emotion was joy, as securing a place in Dracula's household meant I could return to my previous lavish way of life free from hardship and destitution. However, as much as I wanted to, I could not discount the events that had taken place prior to my departure, or the raging, vindictive side that my master had shown when I for once failed to meet his requirements.

Already he had tried to clobber me; would he attempt to stab me next, or run a sword through my body?

"That is very kind of you," I said slowly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "But I don't think it's a good idea."

Dracula's eyebrows practically shot up to his forehead, and he gave a short, spontaneous bark of laugher which further revealed his astonishment at my response.

"Not a good idea?" he said then, after realizing I had not spoken in jest. "Why is that?"

"You were dissatisfied by my performance, Count;" I explained, making sure to choose my words carefully. "Over something which I could not control. I would not like for that to happen again."

"Then don't disappoint me," Dracula said with a wry smile, precariously balancing between jest and sincerity. "Didn't you say less than a minute ago that one should let bygones be bygones?"

I wished I'd possessed the courage and verbal fluidity to explain to him that my idea of forgiveness was to move forward from a tragic event without resenting the other party for their mistakes or trespasses, but not necessarily desiring a reunion or future associations with said individual. I had not forgiven my creator, and I doubted I ever would; certain hurts just ran too deep, but I had been truthful in my willingness to extend complete forgiveness to the Count.

I did not wish for our encounter to become hostile, so I struggled to frame my concerns in as diplomatic a way as possible, knowing fully that my former master might find offense in it still.

"I fear that our respective temperaments will make future conflicts inevitable," I said, tensely awaiting his response.

"Conflicts cause you to evolve in body and in spirit," Dracula countered, nodding along with his words, further emboldened by my lack of an instant rebuke. "There! You agree with me, whether you'd like to or not!" he added triumphantly, and I couldn't help but feel more than just a little flattered over how badly he seemed to want me back. I also slowly came to realize that this put me in the rare and previously unheard of position of being able to negotiate on my own behalf.

"What would you have to me do, if I decided to accept your offer?" I asked.

"Do? You will have no responsibilities aside from one thing," came the Count's quick and brazen reply. "Exactly as before. Use your time to learn about languages and history. There is plenty of material at your disposal in my library."

"So what you are saying is that I would be a _kept_ man," I remarked with just enough rancor to express my distaste of said concept.

Instead of offering an immediate rebuttal, the Count merely shrugged, and thereby implicitly validated my interpretation of his motives. "For someone in your position… that should be a desirable outcome," he said, and I was loath to admit that he was right.

Opportunities were not exactly being thrown abundantly in my general direction, but even though I missed the casual perks of an extravagant lifestyle and all the prospects of intellectual advancement that came with it, such as unrestricted access to a variety of books and publications only available to the upper crust, I feared that our next disagreement would progress to a situation whose severity surpassed the previous one. I vividly recalled the look of madness on the Count's face when he charged at me with the candlestick - an improvised weapon - raised above his shoulder, not bluffing but fully intent on carrying through with the assault.

"I need responsibilities, Count," I argued, careful not to refer to him as "Master" as such would imply that I had accepted the offer to return to his service. There were not many positives about my nomadic lifestyle, but the freedom to roam was certainly one of them, and constantly being indoors, even in the Count's spacious mansion, sometimes made me feel restless and stir-crazy. I needed to apply myself, find something to pour my considerable mental energies into; something cerebral but also physical, since I had not been built to suffer idleness.

"Responsibilities?" Dracula asked, sounding as though he was on the verge of laughter. "Of what sort? Would you like it if I had you muck the stables?"

I glanced toward the horse he had arrived with - one of four belonging to the Count's household - realizing I would have to be shown how to clean the stalls as I had never done it before or even witnessed it happen, but despite the inherently filthy nature of the job, I did not feel immediate repulsion upon considering it a part of my daily repertoire. However, I would not let the Count steer the conversation away from where I wanted it to go, so I refused his stable bait and decided to be blunt, seeing that I had a rare opportunity to plainly state my wants and needs without risk to my safety.

"I was referring to the responsibility of being granted some trust," I said. "I live under your roof, and yet you go to great lengths to keep things secret from me. I needn't be more specific, I gather, given that I have written down my concerns and no doubt you have read them."

Dracula's eyes narrowed, and he gave me a long searching gaze which communicated both wariness and a somewhat reluctant feeling of respect. The latter caused me to experience two diametrically opposed emotions at the same time; one was a sense of pride of being acknowledged as a worthy opponent, and the other was anger at myself for caring so much about human validation, from the Count no less.

"If you knew my reasons for always remaining two steps ahead of my fellows, you would not fault me for taking this precaution," he said then, but I thought I saw genuine regret in his eyes. Regret over having been found out, anyway.

"If you do not trust me, why should I extend my trust to you?" I countered, projecting an aura of calmness despite the fact that my insides were in a state of turmoil.

"Touché," the Count said with a small, delicate scoff, then suddenly whipped his head around to look for his horse - or at least that was what I assumed at the time - and when his attention returned to me, his tone was markedly more hurried and impatient than it had been mere seconds ago. "It is time for me to head back. I have said what I came here to say. The ball is entirely in your court."

I moved my eyes away from the Count to the brightening rim of red in the east and easily deduced that he was running out of time due to the approach of dawn.

"I know you want to know why I keep nocturnal hours," he said then, rising to his feet. "And you shall know, in time, if you extend a bit of trust toward me in this moment."

A war raged within my psyche, sentiment versus rationality, the already vicious battle intensified by the realization that my master wanted an answer now. No doubt sensing the conflict in me, Dracula showed me a surprising amount of empathy by granting me an unexpected but very welcome reprieve.

"I'll leave you alone to think things through," he announced, snapping his fingers almost imperiously to summon his horse. Beelzebub trotted over to us, antsy about moving on, perhaps to get away from my presence. Horses that didn't outright fear me found me unsettling to be around; I had long ago accepted it as a postulate and adjusted my expectations accordingly.

"You have until the next sunrise to return to me. If you are not back by then, I will presume you've rejected my offer."

One day.

It meant I had _one day_ to make up my mind and come to a decision I would hopefully not regret for the remainder of my life, however short it might be. I knew better than to protest, given that it was a fair and reasonable proposal from the Count's perspective, and as much as it hurt to admit, I also knew that he would likely not come chasing after me a second time.

I said nothing, expecting our meeting to end with no more words exchanged between us, but then the Count unexpectedly offered me something out of the pocket of his coat. It was a hip flask containing spirits of some sort, and I wondered if he had brought it along with the intent of handing it to me, or if this was yet another one of his impulse decisions.

"Brandy?" I asked, trying to temper my hopes.

"Vodka," Dracula replied with a sly smile, as if to say he knew I had raided his liquor cabinet the night before and he held no grudge against me because of it. "Remember I'll be wanting that bottle back. It's very precious to me."

Those were the final words spoken to me by the Count, and without further ado he proceeded to mount his faithful steed and disappeared in a flurry of black, the steady clopping of hooves against frozen ground interrupted only once or twice by the distant sound of wolves howling.

When the sounds of his departure had thoroughly faded from my ears, I opened the bottle, half-expecting him to have filled it with plain water to amuse himself at my expense, but to my pleasant surprise I was mistaken. Though hard on my palate, a couple of swigs of vodka warmed my bowels wonderfully, gradually moving outward until my entire body was engulfed in a warm, glowing haze. I did not want to drink too quickly, lest I disturb my digestion and potentially regurgitate the sizable meal I had consumed not long ago.

With nothing to do except think, I decided to have a closer look at the impressive craftsmanship that had gone into the making of the bottle the Count had explicitly requested I return to him. It came as no surprise that my master would own something as exclusive as a silver hip flask monogrammed to him, and I brushed it off as yet another marker of wealth nestled firmly amongst all the rest.

That was until I happened to catch the date engraved into the metal directly below the Count's initials.




Whoever had commissioned the flask had done so almost two-hundred years ago.

To be continued...


	11. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Creature returns to Dracula's house, but makes his continued presence there stringent on one condition: no more secrets between the two of them.

11.

At the end of the day, all things considered, it was not a difficult choice for me to return to Dracula's side. It was easier to remember - and crave - all the positives and discount the negatives as purely situational occurrences not likely to rear their ugly heads again, and at the time I was as willfully ignorant as the famed literary ostrich poking its head into the sand at the first sign of trouble.

The Count, of course, welcomed me with open arms upon my return - quite literally - and I was allowed the rare privilege of seeing my master emote in a liberated and uncontrolled fashion, expression emotions he normally kept hidden away behind his carefully guarded veneer of respectability and iron-clad self-control. For once the guarded facade he utilized as a filter to measure and portion his emotional output fell away from his face, albeit briefly, and gave way to what could best be described as a child's innocent wonder at the discovery of a world previously unknown to them.

This childlike quality in him was simultaneously both endearing and deeply jarring to me, especially knowing what I now knew or at the very least suspected about the Count's purportedly advanced age. When I first became self-aware, I had naively assumed people would live forever in their corporeal forms unless, of course, they fell victim to a violent death, but as my bank of acquired knowledge grew, I had observed the aging process and how time gradually crippled men and women alike, weakening them - flesh, skin and bone - until their bodies ultimately gave out and crumbled.

Time passed the same for me as everyone else, at least on a subjective level, and yet I knew nothing about my own expected lifespan, or if I even had one. It was equally hard to detect and accurately identify changes in my skin that might be due to aging, given what I had as a starting point. Men - with very few exceptions - tended to lose their hair as they became older, but due to the fact that mine had fallen out in large chunks shortly after my "birth", I could not use this aspect to judge my own aging process.

The Count certainly had a full head of thick, lustrous hair with no apparent thinning or loss of quality, further adding to the conundrum around his age. I touched it with my hands when he came to embrace me, wondering if he would rebuke me as he had done when I tried to examine his teeth, but he read no hostile intent into my actions now, and I in turn had to remind myself that my master could not, in fact, know my thoughts unless I shared them.

Not explicitly, anyway.

He embraced me with a sense of exuberance and passion conveying that he was genuinely delighted and perhaps also a smidgen surprised about my return. When he'd left me by the fire after our parlay, his mere presence had exuded an easy confidence which strongly projected the presumption that he already knew what my next move would be.

When he withdrew from my hold and saw the mess on my shirtfront left behind by my very untidy egg supper, he gently tutted at me, like a long-suffering mother who'd just caught her wayward child red-handed with his fingers in the honey jar for the umpteenth time.

"You need a bath," he concluded, still smiling, and I had no argument with that.

I wanted to ask him if he thought my shirt was salvageable, but before I could utter any words, he already answered my question with perfect precision.

"I'll have a new one made especially for you," he said, reminding me of the somewhat morbid fact that the clothes I wore on a daily basis had once belonged to a late servant of the Count. Though adequate, they were not a perfect fit; the trouser-legs and sleeves were too short, and the shirt was sometimes uncomfortably tight around the shoulders when I lifted my arms or moved them more than ninety degrees in any direction.

A set of clothes tailored to fit my frame first sounded very appealing at first, but I quickly realized it also meant I would have to be seen by the tailor himself when he came to take my measurements. Not wanting to inject any negativity into our reunion, I kept my thoughts to myself, simply nodding and humming in agreement whenever the Count spoke.

My master left me with an assortment of cold cuts to still my hunger during the time it would take him to prepare me a bath. I could tell he was in a nurturing mood, so I did not insist on tending to myself or even helping in any way, our dynamic now reminiscent of how he'd treated me during our first meeting when he was my host and I his guest.

I knew now that behind the Count's carefully cultivated social mask, at least two separate personalities resided; one was the generous and benevolent nurturer who saw splendor and potential even in the ugliest of corporeal bodies and sought to raise it, and the other was the impulsive, malevolent, venom-spitting devil I'd had the misfortune of seeing the other night after a series of unfortunate events brought things to a head. I figured then that if I could learn to accurately predict the Count's needs and desires, I might be able to extend my own influence and prevent his moods from abruptly shifting without a moment's notice. Almost immediately I felt guilty having caught myself with such a devious agenda, and knowing how much I myself loathed the idea external control and mental servitude, I would never wish to impose such a fate on another, regardless of how much I wished to escape their erratic nature.

When it was time for my bath, my master took my arm and surprised me by leading me into the section of the house that contained his personal rooms. I was touched by the gesture of trust on the Count's part, but I feared I could not trust myself to remain indifferent in the same environment where I had watched my master gross abuse of himself only days prior.

Fortunately for me, Dracula's bedroom turned out not to be the final destination. Instead it was an antechamber accessed from another set of rooms, and I realized instantly that this was where we would remain considering all the work that had gone into setting up the room for this purpose. All kerosene lamps had been doused and replaced with a judicious amount of live candles to create a scenic atmosphere perfect for romantic endeavors, but the biggest surprise was - by far - the bathtub that stood in the center of the room.

Instead of the elegant claw-footed bathtub he had presented to me on our first meeting - no doubt at least in part to show that he could afford one - a larger and decidedly less stylish wooden contraption had been readied for me this time around, the water so hot it created steamy ripples in the air above and around it. I wondered briefly if the Count remembered that I was uncomfortable with extreme heat due to my inability to sweat like a regular man. I envisioned myself panting like a hound hot on a fox' trail to emit excess heat I could not otherwise rid my body of, and the ridiculousness of said mental image in turn caused me to emit a sudden bark of laughter.

"Oh, I know it's a bit crude and doesn't reflect my status or my taste anywhere close to what I'd want," Dracula said in response to my observation in a characteristic display of mock regret and false modesty which sounded too rehearsed to be genuine. "But I chose it out of consideration for your comfort. And my own, naturally."

My master laughed, and it was his wind-chime laugh again, all sharp angles and silvery rustles, but with an added sweetness to soften the effects of it somewhat.

"Did you think I was going to bathe you?" he asked, lips forming a perfect o. "Oh no, you see; this time we are going to bathe _each other_."

My heart took an unexpected leap after the Count's announcement that he was going into the bathtub with me, because bathing together was by far the most intimate activity we had partaken in as lovers, surpassing the raw physical act of sexual congress any day of the week. I had never had the pleasure of seeing my master disrobe from any of his intricate public outfits; he always came to my bed wearing either a robe or a nightshirt that was easily divested of, hence I watched intently when his nimble fingers started to work on the long row of buttons on his waistcoat.

Unlike most of his peers, Dracula was not in the habit of wearing a wig, and he also wore his hair longer than the standard French style, only occasionally tied back by a velvet ribbon. Now it hung free around his shoulders, the smallest curls closest to his hairline damp with perspiration and plastered against his forehead. He seemed unaware of being watched for once, and I almost dared to believe I saw glimpses of the real man behind the expertly cultivated persona he tried to project to stay in control. One stray lock of hair got entangled in his cravat when he attempted to remove said item of clothing, and I saw a subtle shift in my master's face when he started the process of untangling it. A hint of frustration, then a flash of rage so brief I couldn't but doubt it had been there to begin with, and then it blew over, opening the door for more pleasant emotions once again.

I wondered if he felt my eyes on him, as I - from personal experience - knew that one tended to feel when one was being watched, even if there was no rational explanation for it. If he was aware of me staring, he did not show it and continued to peel away layers of clothing with practiced ease.

Suddenly I imagined my master dressed in a much more extravagant and decidedly less practical suit from the Rococo era, all pastel shades, ruffles and opulent amounts of lace; a jabot worn in place of a cravat, the overall tone light, feminine and airy. Such an outfit would have been impossible to get in and out of without the help of a servant, and especially so without the use of a mirror.

What had been the ruling fashion of 1622, the year when Vlad Draculea received a special gift in the form of a monogrammed silver hip flask?

I realized I must have been lost in thought when the Count unexpectedly appeared in my field of vision, now entirely naked except for his rings. I watched him lift his wiry arms above his head to gather this locks back, supposedly to avoid the risk of them becoming a wet, tangled mess covering his face. I had no hair of my own to worry about, so I focused instead on my clothes, thinking I would have taken better care of them if I had known I would be allowed to return here.

The heat of the bathwater bordered on uncomfortable for me, but I deemed myself safe from the risk of a heatstroke, so I said nothing, waiting instead for the air to cool it down. Before joining me in the water, the Count handed me a glass of delectably cool whiskey, ensured to remain that way for a while through the addition of two clicking ice-cubes. I smelled something else as well; a fresh herbaceous scent which my inexperienced and somewhat stuffy nose identified as ginger and another floral addition, possibly lemongrass, although I was unsure if this particular fragrance was coming from the drink or the bathwater itself.

I noted that my master had not prepared a drink for himself and couldn't help but wonder if he had an ulterior motive for staying sober tonight. My thoughts raced far ahead of me as usual and for a fraction of a second I even suspected that the unfamiliar scent I'd picked up on was a sleeping draught intended to knock me out cold. Aware of the lack of logic and consistency in my own reasoning, I wanted badly to wholeheartedly trust the Count and internally scolded myself for being unable to. I sipped at my drink, relishing the descent of the pleasantly icy liquid down my gullet and waiting patiently for the buzz to set in.

The wooden vessel which contained us also held enough water to allow for complete submergence of a person, and the Count was not slow to take advantage of this when he joined me. I thought I felt a touch of something - an exhale, perhaps - against my privates and twitched reflexively, prompting my master to resurface preceded by a string of bubbles which signaled his laughter.

"You are so self-conscious all the time," he said teasingly, dark hair slicked back like a charcoal helmet to highlight a somewhat unusual skull shape otherwise concealed by his voluminous curls. "Don't be. You are safe here with me."

His cranium, though quite capacious overall, contained some curious physical properties, such as being remarkably flat on top after the rise of a high but simultaneously sloping forehead. His temples dipped in strongly, and now able to see the exact position of his hairline, I realized it was further back than I had come to believe. This along with his pointed ears created a peculiar contrast against his finely chiseled facial features, and it surprised me somewhat to observe these somewhat beastly characteristics on full display when I contemplated the fact that I had not noticed them prior.

As odd as I found them, this blend of contrasting physical characteristics did not repulse me in the slightest; instead they worked together in harmony to enhance the Count's angular, raptor-like beauty. One could argue that the shortness of his upper lip and the slightly droopy nose-tip that hung above it lent him a somewhat hag-like appearance that was unbecoming for a man, but even factoring in his pointy chin, I did not see a witch; I saw a man looking at me with want in his eyes. They were more green now than maroon, perhaps made so by the soft, flickering light of multiple candles, or perhaps by the sheen of wetness covering his skin causing light to refract differently.

My master went on to straddle me, and my body instantly responded in kind. He felt it as soon as I did and reached down to adjust our positions accordingly, trapping my emergent erection between our respective frames. I could not tell if he was hard as well, but given his generally poor response to manual stimulation on top of his strange tendency to ignore his own prick during sexual intercourse, I expected him not to act on it. I passed my hands over the length of his torso, lightly squeezing his arse, thinking that it was the only part of his body with any amount of fleshiness to it.

Throughout my time as the Count's lover, I had accumulated a certain amount of knowledge of his likes and dislikes in the lovemaking department, and I knew for a fact that he liked to be surprised, and preferably in a manner that was less than gentle. I decided to capitalize on the opportunity to slip one of my fingers into his arsehole and received a boost of newfound confidence from having anticipated my master's desires correctly. He gasped and arched against me, very clearly signaling without words that he enjoyed the treatment and wanted it to continue.

I probed deeper, burying my finger up to the second knuckle and felt the Count's sleek internal muscles clench around my digit to pull me in. He cradled my massive skull in his hands and pressed my face against his neck, after which I stuck my tongue out and lapped at the skin just below his Adam's Apple, tasting plain water with just a hint of perspiration. My master's reaction to this was interesting as well; a shudder passed through his body hinting at a mixture of pleasure and trepidation, almost as if he was expecting me to bite down and was disappointed when I did not.

"Fuck me now," he urged in a raspy tone and reached between our bodies to position my member at his entrance.

"It'll hurt," I said. It was true, since the water prevented the use of an added artificial lubrication, but I also feared such a strenuous activity would raise my body temperature to uncomfortable or even dangerous levels.

The Count's hands stilled and he spoke again. "You don't want to?"

"I didn't say that," I objected, fearing this temporary stalemate of ours would prompt another explosive argument.

But instead of taking offense, my master laughed softly. "Tonight is for you," he said, pressing butterfly kisses to the row of ugly stitches forming my jawline. "Anything you would like for us to do, we'll do."

Anything? My first impulse was to ask if he really meant what he said, but the Count anticipated my question, and quickly added, "Within reason, naturally."

I decided to go out on a limb and attempt to break down some of the barriers on our path to further intimacy. "Spend the night with me," I pleaded. "The whole night."

My master scrunched his nose, but he did not withdraw from his place seated across my lap, which I took as a tentative step in the right direction.

"I have never been much of a morning person," he said then with a forced sense of joviality which easily betrayed his true feelings on the subject, and I wondered - not completely devoid of bitterness - what I could have possibly done to make him so afraid of sleeping in my presence.

"That doesn't matter. None of that matters. You said we would have to learn to trust each other."

"And I intend on extending my complete trust to you in the future," Dracula replied, reiterating his ethos from our campfire meeting. Without action to accompany them, however, the words rung hollow. 

"Does that mean you'll do it?"

"I'll consider it. Now…" He wrapped his arms around my neck, resting his forearms against my prominent trapezius muscles which gave my shoulders a brutish, oxen appearance. "Is there anything else I could do for you right now?"

"You could allow me to finish you," I said, brushing against the area of question with the same hand I had previously used to finger him. There was not a huge amount of tumescence - not yet, anyway - and I fully expected him to turn me down, so I was almost taken aback - albeit in a good way - when my master unexpectedly acquiesced.

"You can try," he said with a thoughtful and slightly hesitant look on his face. "But my blood is often slow to move. I might not be able to."

Encouraged by his willingness to fulfill my request, I reached down between us and began to stroke his prick underwater. Not being able to see what I was doing was both a hindrance and a blessing, since I had to rely on tactile sensation - my own and his - to figure out whether my efforts paid out. I could not fall back on personal experience to guide me in this endeavor, given that my own cock was structurally different in a significant way.

On the few and ultimately fruitless occasions I had attempted to masturbate the Count, I had found his member difficult to grasp due to the excess skin surrounding it like a sheath on top of the fact that it was never fully erect. This time I pushed the skin as far back as I could and dug the callused pad of my thumb into the sensitive and rarely-exposed crevice where the head met the shaft. This region was less sensitive in myself due to being perpetually exposed, but I had been correct in assuming it would bring him pleasure.

Pleasure with just the barest hint of pain, as I already knew he would respond favorably to that combination. The long, sinewy muscles in his arms went taut and he thrust his hips forward and deeper into my grasp, encouraging me to continue as well as flooding me with a renewed sense of confidence. I held him in place by wrapping my other arm around his waist, and there my hand made contact with his slicked back mass of wet hair. I vividly remembered the Count's abuse of himself, which had included pulling his hair to the point of almost breaking his neck and my own visceral repulsion towards it, but still I performed a mimicry of this act on him now, albeit in a much gentler and controlled manner. His response was immediate, and his so far rather modest erection stiffened considerably in my grasp, and for a moment I thought I could feel it pulsate.

Despite my inexperience, it did not take me long to bring my master to a climax now that I had discovered a working formula for doing so, and even though the water concealed the evidence of it, I was certain that there had been an emission of fluids, since I had felt the spurts against the skin of my abdomen.

The Count sagged against me, still panting and shivering, and I couldn't help but imagine what it would have felt like to be inside him whilst his body convulsed in the throes of an orgasm.

"Did you enjoy that, Master?" I whispered in his ear, stroking his flanks with a much gentler touch than mere moments ago.

My master gave a deep, throaty chuckle and braced himself against the edge of the bathtub to put some distance between our faces presumably to allow for eye-contact. "I did," he said. "I believe we are starting to truly understand each other."

The idea conveyed in these words held a great deal of appeal to me, but I did not want to overplay my hand by springing too much on my master too soon, so I pretended the words did not faze me very much at all, as I had learned from experience that my emotions could be used against me if I displayed them too liberally.

I wanted the Count to be the one to initiate a higher level of trust between us so that I could be sure my attempts would not be rebuffed or ridiculed, but offering to wash his back and hair was a relatively innocent request, so I made it.

Dracula giggled from behind his hand as though I had suggested something positively indecent, which was already a pretty tall order considering our recent activities.

"It's your turn," he said, demonstrably licking his upper row of teeth.

"My turn for what?" I asked, hating to be made a fool out of but asking anyway to avoid misunderstandings which might bloom into conflicts.

The Count rolled his eyes at me, still in a semi-playful mood, but no one knew how long that might last. "To finish, you big dummy," he said. "Have you forgotten about it?" He cocked his head and peered at me, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. "Or will you disappoint me again?"

"Why don't we save that for later?" I proposed, challenging him. It was a major risk given how unpredictable my master could be, but I decided to take it anyway. "I'll take you to bed, and then I'll fuck you exactly as you want."

The Count said nothing for the longest time, his only reaction being a small, insistent twitch in his upper lip, and I feared I had truly overplayed my hand by springing things on him too quickly. Nonetheless, I hid my nervousness as best I could, thinking that for once, my limited range of facial expressions actually worked in my favor.

"Is that a promise?" Dracula asked, regarding me coyly from under wet, spiky eyelashes.

He said nothing more then, but I could hear his soft breathing through his mouth. In that moment, I envied his ability to sweat and not constantly having to worry about his surroundings to avoid critical overheating. My body lacking this minor but highly significant chemical control mechanism told me that in Frankenstein's mind, I had never been more than a first rough draft, certainly not intended to make its way into the world and become a part of it.

"It is a promise," I said cockily, reminding myself that the best way to prove my creator wrong was to become all those things he had explicitly told me I could never be because of my revolting appearance. Confident was one such thing, and while I would not yet call myself confident by any stretch of the word, having someone - even a man as capricious as the Count - look at me with want in his eyes did wonders for my self-esteem.

"I'll hold you to it," he said, mirroring my cocky quip with more of the same.

The remainder of our joint bath passed mostly in a companionable silence, and as a further extension of trust, my master went as far as to show me how to shampoo his hair, even allowing me to massage the freshly scented herbaceous product into his scalp. Since I had no hair of my own, the same act would have been wasted on me, but I derived a degree of pleasure nonetheless from providing him with satisfaction.

After the bath was over and we were toweling ourselves - separately, I might add - I saw my chance to awkwardly invite the Count into what I presumed was still my private room up in the tower. He burst out laughing, and a few agonizing seconds passed during which I wanted nothing more than have the floor swallow me, my newfound confidence completely evaporated.

"I presume that is a no, then…" I muttered, and since I could not blush, sweat or even cry, I had no way of naturally expressing my embarrassment or disappointment through automatic bodily functions, which left me with no outlet for my emotions.

"If you are asking me to come with you, that I won't do," Dracula said cryptically. "But my door is open for you, should you wish to spend the night in my bed."

I could hardly believe I hadn't somehow misheard or misinterpreted the Count's invitation, despite the fact that his speech was not slurred in the slightest, and I was not hard of hearing for other reasons. My body had already burned through the single glass of whiskey I'd had earlier, and I considered myself more mentally sober than ever before.

"If you were to accept this offer, remember one thing… nay, two things. One: do not disappoint me. Two… You might not like me in the morning."

An imperative and a nebulous warning. Neither one was anywhere near sufficient to deter me.

When my master heard my decision, he flashed me an instant, radiant smile that was almost enough to convince me that I had simply imagined the glint of hesitation - or perhaps even fear - in his eyes moments prior.

Dracula fiddled with the sash of his green robe - the same one he'd worn during our explosive argument which resulted in me being assaulted and then expelled from his house - and it brought back unwelcome memories for me, but I suspected that he had his own reasons to be nervous, as much as they differed from mine, so I suppressed my own emotions and prepared instead to handle his.

The Count walked languidly towards the door that opened into his bedchamber, his bare feet dead-silent against the polished hardwood floor. There was a soft rustle of fabric, and then he was out of sight. He had, however, left the door slightly ajar so as not to give the impression he had reneged on his promise.

Taking a series of deep breaths, I finally built up the courage to follow him inside.

To be continued...


End file.
